


In Equal Measure

by Philosophizes



Series: Joy and Sorrow in Equal Measure [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Halls of Mandos, Hope, M/M, Time Travel Fix-It, Tragedy, bordering on prose fic, bullet point fic, when does one become the other right here I found the line
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 108,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25173181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philosophizes/pseuds/Philosophizes
Summary: There's a balance to tragedy and eucatastrophe. Even Marred, Arda was made with goodwill and divine grace - there is love and mercy and forgiveness even for those that would not accept it, even for those who don't yet realize they need it.So sometimes you get the second chance you didn't ask for.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Aredhel & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Finwë, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Series: Joy and Sorrow in Equal Measure [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899112
Comments: 345
Kudos: 235





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/gifts), [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Starless Road](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4641153) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> Quarantine found me a new fandom so here I am, once again weak for tragedy and moral struggle and people becoming better.
> 
> Shoutout to [starlightwalking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking)/[arofili](https://arofili.tumblr.com/) and [JazTheBard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard) for their content creation and Jaz especially for being such a joy to interact with! You two got me attached enough to the sad angst elves that I've actually written and posted anything instead of having it live in my head.

  * Maedhros wakes from fiery death and anguish to Fëanor’s estate in Valinor with the light of Tyelperion at its height
  * _Oh,_ he thinks in hopeless anguish. _Everlasting Darkness is **having to do this all again**_
  * He might be full of pain and self-loathing and despair, but loyalty and devotion don’t need you to feel good to work. He completed the Oath and was damned anyways, but at least he had saved his brothers and father
  * He’ll do it _better_ this time
  * He can tell from his room roughly where he is in the sequence of events. Morgoth’s causing unrest, the Noldor have started arming themselves, and Fëanor’s created the Silmarils but hasn’t been exiled to Formenos yet
  * There’s still time to save them – his father and brothers from the Oath, his grandfather from Morgoth, his mother from losing them all, _Findekáno-_
  * He’ll certainly die horribly and presumably start this all over, but, well, then he’ll just do it again
  * And again
  * And again
  * (He deserves it)
  * Maedhros gets up, dresses like he’s going hunting (he has no armor to hand, else he would wear it), straps on a sword that’s never seen true use (it will in Alqualondë, and then in Beleriand, and then he’ll lose it when Morgoth takes him), grabs some other survival gear, goes downstairs, steals the Silmarils from their vault, gets on his horse, and rides hard out of Tirion northwards without anyone seeing him. He’s been at war for six hundred years, this is _easy_
  * _‘To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well’_ – he’s never been able to avoid killing for the Oath, never been able to keep the peace, never been able to win, he knows well what the Doom means for him. His only plan is _‘live and keep the Silmarils from Morgoth’_. Maybe it won’t be enough to thwart the Doom, but it’s better than outright trying for _‘keep the Silmarils from my father and prevent any of it from ever happening’_
  * _Where’s Nelyafinwë?_ Fëanáro asks at breakfast
  * _I haven’t seen him yet today,_ Nerdanel answers
  * _His hunting things were gone when I looked,_ Makaläure says, trying to cover for his elder brother, who’s obviously snuck out somewhere with Findekáno again. _He must have decided to go with Tyelkormo_
  * That’s odd, but Nelyafinwë is a peacemaker and Tirion is tense at the moment. Their eldest isn’t usually one to seek a physical release from stress the way Tyelkormo or Ambarussat are, but it’s an unusual time. Or maybe he thought Tyelkormo needed supervision. Usually if he’s off hunting he won’t get himself into trouble but, well. Better safe than sorry
  * No one worries. This is Aman. Nothing truly bad happens in Aman
  * Fëanáro doesn’t realize the Silmarils are gone until he checks in on them late that afternoon, a bit before dinner



* * *

  * Fingon wakes up suddenly after having spoken with Eru Ilúvatar with an awful foreboding and a relentless pressure to _gogogo!_
  * He knows this room and he knows that light, this is Tirion in the Time of the Trees-
  * Maedhros isn’t here. He probably woke up in his own room, which means he’s alone and still deeply unwell in fëa and almost certainly either doing something drastic and ill-advised or having a mental breakdown. Actually, probably both
  * His father had known Fëanor and his followers were making weapons, of course. While he hadn’t forbidden his own faction to make and keep weapons, he’d not actively discouraged them, either. But that didn’t extend to his immediate House. He went unarmed, and so would his children
  * So Fingon has no sword nor war-spear. That’s not the worst thing in the world, even if it is a bit inconvenient. Better to have more weapons than not, but he’s always been an archer first and foremost
  * He’s always favored and been favored in turn by Manwë, too. Fingon speaks the language of birds, and loves the whipping wind and having height under his feet and the bite of standing outside in a thunderstorm. He’s an archer but no great hunter – instead of chasing down prey on his mare he gives her her head and they gallop into the teeth of the wind until his eyes water and still his arrows land true no matter where he sights
  * Thangorodrim was not the last of the many mountains he’d climbed, but the shot he never took was the one he’d prayed the most fervently over. In a world slightly kinder to them, maybe one where Fëanor survived Gothmog, Maglor would have had the morning mists and echoing hills of Hithlum to sing to, and Fingon would have held the Gap, ranging the Cavalry of the March across Lothlann, able to look up at the cries of hunting hawks over the plains and see Himring, too
  * He takes his bow and his hunting knife, but leaves the harp this time
  * Ñolofinwë simply sighs when the only children present for breakfast are Turukáno and Arakáno. Anairë rolls her eyes at her husband’s theatrical mood and keeps up a conversation with Elenwë. Tyelkormo was off on a hunting trip so _of course_ Írissë had met him past the gates before the Mingling of the Lights, and really, why did he bother about Findekáno, anyway? He was sure to turn up just after everyone else had settled into their days, completely unapologetic and lying outrageously about where he’d been when they all knew perfectly well that he’d snuck over to see Nelyafinwë while the rest of the city was asleep
  * Findekáno doesn’t turn up for lunch. Turukáno frowns at his empty seat; Arakáno says he’ll take a walk towards Grandfather Finwë’s, maybe he got distracted
  * The youngest of the House of Ñolofinwë is still out when Fëanáro bursts in, yelling about his missing Silmarils and his missing eldest. Ñolofinwë yells right back that he doesn’t _care_ about what happened to his Silmarils and Írissë snuck out to go with Tyelkormo and Findekáno probably went with her so it’s no good blaming _him_ for Nelyafinwë’s absence, it’s not like _he_ gave _his_ children permission to run off with their cousins-



* * *

  * Maedhros is Doomed and Fëanáro was not quiet about the missing Silmarils and Melkor knows an opportunity when one presents itself
  * Still, Maedhros makes it past Formenos before he’s caught
  * _You stink of fear and the Void,_ Melkor says. _Whatever **have** you been doing, Nelyafinwë Fëanárion?_
  * Maedhros has both hands at the moment, but he still draws with his left. Melkor chuckles at him
  * _Lord of Angband,_ Maedhros calls him. _So rude to bring up the forgiven past,_ Melkor chides him. _Unrepentant,_ Maedhros names him
  * They are under thick tree cover, and it is as dark here as Aman gets in this time without going underground. Melkor has no need to worry about Manwë’s eyes in this place
  * But Fingon’s-
  * It’s easy to track one horse going full speed and never stopping at any towns or villages when that sort of thing is notable but only a cause for mild interest, not concern. Fingon has been on Maedhros’s trail since five hours out of Tirion
  * Once, Fingon braved Angband and scaled Thangorodrim. Once, his father dealt Morgoth seven blows before dying
  * Fingon gets off one arrow that lodges under the collarbone before Melkor drags him from the trees
  * Maedhros’s own sword is pinning his right wrist to the ground and Melkor has dragged claws across his body and mind but that is nothing to the heart-wrenching terror of seeing Findekáno is his grasp
  * _Kánya Kánya Kánya!_ the part of him that is always screaming has a name, in this moment, for his agony
  * He is Doomed, and this is the Everlasting Darkness
  * _And what will you give, Maitimo?_ Melkor mocks him
  * Maedhros has had practice, has kept many things for himself as of yet, and Melkor has not even had him yet for a full day besides- but it is too easy, faced with this presence, to lose his grip on pieces of fifty years in Angband. Maedhros thinks he has managed to imply that they are fears his own mind spun after hearing too many horror tales from Cuiviénen, and hidden from Melkor what he had done in another world so that he could not be inspired by his own future works and improve upon the horrors, nor learn any weakness of the Noldor that he does not already know
  * If there is any mercy or kindness in the world he will have succeeded and is not grasping at false hope, that he has not made things worse in trying to fix them as he always-
  * Still, Melkor knows enough to know what hurts
  * _I,_ Maedhros’s voice is thin with pain and he hates how clear it is, how like Maitimo he sounds, in this moment. He has not been breathing volcanic ash and fumes and freezing mountain air for thirty years in this body, nor forced to swallow embers and iron shards and worse in the twenty years before, to roughen and deepen his voice. _Let him go and do not hurt him, and I will not escape-_
  * He can’t see his cousin. Melkor has leaned in too close for that, close enough that all he can see is his fair-foul visage and the cruel delight he is taking in this moment
  * But Fingon can still hear him even if they can’t see each other, and yells in thick Noldorin Sindarin _‘So does the Lord of Himring prove that he is indeed but a thrall of the Shadow-!’_
  * Maedhros has ripped the sword from his wrist and plunged it into Melkor’s face without thought or consideration
  * Melkor howls in surprise and pain and anger. There is a horrible crack of bones and the familiar stench of burning flesh and Findekáno is thrown to the ground before him, out of Maedhros’s reach. The fallen Vala picks up the bag holding the Silmarils and flees, favoring one leg. There is a great deep gash down his thigh. One of Findekáno’s arms is coated in black, hot blood, and his hunting knife is almost unrecognizable
  * Fingon rolls himself over with a breathy gurgle of pain and coughs wetly before starting to determinedly crawl towards his cousin. His clothes are smoking, the skin beneath is charred, and he feels his death come again. But they have been parted too many times before for him to stop now
  * Maedhros knows what someone drowning in their own blood sounds like
  * _No-_
  * He would say more, would tell his cousin, _Findekáno, Kánya, stop, to stay still, I’ll come to you,_ but Melkor has had more time with him. Maedhros knows half his face has been torn off, and Melkor had made him watch as he’d delicately slit open his abdomen and unspooled his intestines, careful not to nick a thing and let any of it go septic
  * He’s dying, too
  * Findekáno is half-lying on him, just upright enough to be able to look him in the face, and Maedhros is weeping _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t save you I’ve killed you again I-_
  * _You **idiot,**_ Fingon hisses at him, rightly deducing that Eru returned his cousin without memories of the Void. Granted, his own are a bit... not-there, and he’s not ungrateful for that, and Maedhros had had a far worse time and probably would have instantly died again from the trauma and flung himself right back into the Void if he’d returned remembering being there, but they’ve already _had_ this conversation and it was exasperating enough the first time around. _Don’t you **dare** condemn yourself to Everlasting Darkness this time, you are **going** to Mandos-_
  * _No, I-_
  * _Am I or am I not your King?_ Findekáno demands, and Maedhros finally realizes that they’re speaking Sindarin and catches up to a couple minutes ago
  * **_Kánya,_** he chokes out. _I’m sorry, I can’t, I couldn’t, you shouldn’t-_
  * _So help me Maedhros I will storm through the Void as many times as you fling yourself there to drag you out even if I have to do it until the world ends!_
  * _Don’t,_ Maedhros begs
  * _Then **stop doing it**_
  * _Do you not know what I-_
  * _I was there to see the pouring in of the dead from Doriath and Sirion. I know what you’ve done_
  * _You should not-_
  * _Am I or am I not your King?_ Fingon demands again
  * Maedhros once rode day and night across a continent still half on fire from Himring to Hithlum. He had strode into the Hall of the High King ready to lose the last tatters of his hope and joy and acknowledge whichever Ñolo- or Arafinwean had managed to hold West Beleriand together as High King only to find his most beloved seated on the throne and wearing the crown he had given his father on the shores of Lake Mithrim centuries ago. He had as much fallen as knelt before Fingon, and proclaimed his loyalty just short of swearing it
  * _Yes, my King,_ Maedhros whispers
  * _Then swear to me,_ Fingon orders, and Maedhros has seen another with fire in his eyes as he died demanding an oath but in this moment Findekáno is greater than Fëanor could have ever been
  * Maedhros does not live long enough to finish swearing his oath to answer Námo’s call rather than cast himself into the Everlasting Darkness, but Fingon does not live long enough to hear him falter. His fëa grabs Maedhros’s the instant it leaves his hröa, and though Maedhros had no intention of forswearing this oath even if he left it incomplete, he lets Fingon march him to the Halls of Mandos rather than shake him off and walk himself



* * *

  * Tyelkormo and Írissë have had an excellent time ranging in the game-rich northern forest. Írissë is joyfully shoving a laughing Tyelkormo when they stumble, inattentive, into a bloody clearing in the deep woods
  * Írissë goes blank and silent and falls to her knees, fëa wavering
  * Tyelkormo screams, and screams, and screams
  * Huan’s howls exist partially in tones only Ainur can hear
  * Oromë wheels his hunt sharply around, abandoning their quarry, and races northwest




	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished Chapter 7, so have a next-day update! I don't know exactly how quickly chapters will go up, but I have my outline set and at least some content written up to Chapter 14, so I don't think we'll be looking at _huge_ gaps
> 
> Also: this is not a story with consistent chapter lengths, enjoy this outsized installment which will probably be the longest of this fic. We've got a lot to cover here

  * Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë’s feud is reaching new heights now that the Silmarils are missing, and the atmosphere in Tirion is even worse. No blows have been exchanged yet, but Finwë is pessimistically certain that it will only be a matter of time. And a short one, at that
  * In an attempt to keep things contained, he’s ordered his two eldest sons and their families to reside in the palace instead of their separate estates. There are orders left at the entrances to the city for Nelyafinwë, Findekáno, Tyelkormo, and Írissë to attend them when they return from their ill-timed hunting trip
  * Finwë really wishes his eldest sons’ eldest sons hadn’t decided to tag along with their younger siblings. It’s unfair to Nelyafinwë that his father and uncle can’t act like the adults they are, but Fëanáro will restrain himself at least a little if Nelyo is there to look long-suffering and Ñolofinwë will try to set a good example of familial relations if his eldest nephew is in the room. If you add Findekáno in, Fëanáro restrains himself even more for his son’s sake, even if he’d never admit it
  * It’s still not a _lot_ of restraint, in total. But it’s something
  * Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë are back to shouting at each other in the Grand Hall this particular morning. It’s empty of everyone but family. Indis is keeping strained conversation with Nerdanel and Anairë as all three try to keep the children out of their fathers’ argument. Finwë is sitting on his throne nursing a headache and wondering whether it’s worth trying to interrupt his sons for lunch, or if he should just leave them to it and let the rest of the family have some peace in the dining room without them
  * The captain of his honor guard rushes in, expression strained, before he’s made up his mind. The doors of the Great Hall open and his sons blessedly stop arguing
  * On second thought, Finwë’s not sure if Lord Oromë’s presence will necessarily help the situation, though he’s brought Finwë’s grandchildren back at lea-
  * Írissë is face-down on Huan’s back, still and silent in a way she never is. Tyelkormo is pressed up against Lord Oromë’s side, the Vala’s cloak falling over them both and his Lord’s arm protectively around him. Finwë’s grandson is shuddering in his grip, eyes wild. Nelyafinwë and Findekáno are nowhere to be seen
  * “Lord Oromë,” Finwë begins, and sees the Vala’s expression. It is deep regret and painful grief and an undercurrent of rage that Finwë has seen before, when a Rider came out of the trees and stood under the starlight of Cuiviénen
  * Finwë is not of the Unbegotten who awoke fully in their adult bodies under the stars at the shores of the lake. There were some generations, more than a handful but less than ten, no one was quite sure how many, between those first and Oromë’s arrival
  * His sons and their wives have gone to their children. Pulled off Huan, Írissë is dead-eyed and pliable, but still mercifully alive. Tyelkormo stays clutching to his Lord until his parents are close enough to lunge for without ever being out of arm’s length of Oromë
  * His sons and their wives are children of Aman, of the Light of the Trees, not of Cuiviénen and the Stars. His grandchildren, even more so. None of them- they were supposed to have been _safe_ from this-
  * Indis, like Míriel, had made the Great Journey with the rest of their people from the far East. She is clutching his hand in the same knowing dread that is in his heart even as he continues to speak
  * “Where are my grandsons _,_ ” he asks of Oromë. His voice is steady, as befits a king in a crisis
  * _The children should not be here for this,_ Oromë says, after a long moment. It lands heavily, and his Fëanáro, beloved too bright Fëanáro, catches on too quickly
  * He clutches his third son tighter and demands: “Bring me Nelyafinwë.”
  * _The children should not be here for this,_ Oromë repeats, quieter and more full of grief
  * Finwë can see when Nerdanel realizes, shoulders tightening
  * “And Findekáno?” she asks, voice wavering. She’s never wanted to be a Princess, and he has never asked it of her. She just loves Fëanáro, and that is all Finwë could ever wish for
  * Oromë is silent
  * Indis squeezes his hand in silent shared misery and steps away. “Come, grandchildren,” she tells them, and her voice does not waver. She is a good Queen of the Noldor. It is a testament to the situation that Fëanáro does not reject her implicit claiming of him
  * The children leave, reluctantly. Makalaurë and Curufinwë have to take hold of Tyelkormo before he will be moved, and Indis picks up Írissë herself. They know something is horribly wrong, but they have no concept of what
  * Ñolofinwë and Anairë understood in Oromë’s silence. His second son is weeping quietly, slumped against his wife
  * Maia of Oromë’s train have slipped in, reverently carrying burdens wrapped in multiple cloaks, and gently lay them down. One is longer than the other
  * Finwë would have stopped him but Fëanáro is there first, tearing the cloth away from son, only to collapse with a wheeze as soon as his body is exposed
  * Finwë unveils the other more gently, and regards his grandsons
  * Nelyafinwë has deep scores across his face, chest, and shoulders. The skin is gone from half his face, and some muscle too. The teeth on that side are fully exposed. His right wrist has been pierced through and shattered; most of the hand is missing. There is a too-clean surgical cut across his belly, and the flesh beneath doesn’t sit quite right despite what must have been the best efforts of Oromë’s hunt to return his insides to their proper places
  * Findekáno’s thighbones, hips, and ribs are crushed. There has been effort to put things back where they belong here too, but there is only so much to be done with a chest caving in from no support and torn lungs. The swathes of charred skin and fat and muscle still smell, faintly, and they didn’t manage to clean quite all the blood from his otherwise undamaged left arm
  * The lights of Laurelin and Tyelperion beautify everything they touch, even mangled corpses. It is obscene
  * Nerdanel is only standing because she is gripping Fëanáro’s shoulders and he has, in turn, pressed himself against her knees. Behind him, Finwë can hear Anairë holding herself together enough to ask questions of Lord Oromë
  * “Tyelkormo and Írissë-”
  * _Were not with them. They found them in the deep forest north of Formenos, already... like this_
  * “We thought they’d all left together, why-”
  * _I do not know. If their siblings know, they have not said. I thought it wise not to push_
  * “Who- What-”
  * _We do not know. They were hidden from Manwë’s sight. There was a blood trail leading away, and I put some of my people to following, but it was already some hours old. I sent word to the other Valar; we are awaiting news from Lord Námo, who will surely have some answers_
  * Anairë is crying quietly with her husband now and Finwë knows what Oromë is not saying, knows what they both know, because Finwë was born and grew to his majority on the shores of Cuiviénen and has seen those left behind by the Dread Rider, the Shadow-Hunter, the Terror in the Dark, before; and Oromë has stalked the trail of those made to impersonate him and the one who made them long before the first of the Eldar awoke to starlight
  * His hands are clenched at his sides and he is ready to release a deep breath that will carry the cursèd name of _‘Morgoth’_ out into the world, when-
  * The Trees go dark



* * *

  * Námo is exceedingly surprised to find two Princes of the Noldor come before him, especially like this. He knows, both in his officially capacity and as husband to Vairë who favors Míriel Therindë, exactly who they are, and furthermore that they were born in Aman and raised in Tirion, and so they should not-
  * The fëa of Maitimo Nelyafinwë Fëanárion remembers a hröa scarred and abused and missing a hand, and it burns with a fire built of suffering and hatred that carries in its heart a deep darkness that hisses the aching empty silence of the Void. He is on his remembered knees, head bowed, filling the Receiving Hall with a miasma of hopelessness and pervasive self-loathing that is almost more uncomfortable than that hint of the Void
  * The fëa of Findekáno – _Astaldo_ , something in him adds, and he doesn’t know what – Ñolofinwion is a stark contrast, head held high with kingly grace and standing protectively against his cousin, a remembered hand curled possessively on his far shoulder. He has his own power about him, quieter than the eldest child of Fëanáro, but there is-
  * A snatch of a single line of the Great Song, a reflected glow of great Light, the hint of a thought of a memory of-
  * _Explain yourselves,_ Námo commands, shaken
  * It is a story he would not believe without that unspeakable trace of Eru about them. It is clear on Findekáno Astaldo, but presents itself in Maitimo Nelyafinwë more as the fact that there is only that bit of deep darkness about him, rather than it consuming him
  * _Truly and greatly does Eru love His children,_ Námo thinks, and loses control of his form for what is a long time for him, though only just long enough to be a perceptible flicker for the Firstborn, when Findekáno Astaldo relates what Elrond Peredhel shared of what Elwing Dioriel told him of what Dior the Beautiful had learned from his mother Lúthien Tinúviel about claiming her Secondborn husband from the Halls in another world
  * What he has been so secretly scared is hatred of the Children of Eru is doubt in the Justness of the Song that could include such suffering, and fear of both the doubt itself and the conclusions it leads to. He has never been so relieved in all his existence
  * Their story ends
  * Fingon isn’t entirely sure what to expect next. He only knows that if Lord Námo decrees some kind of punishment for Maedhros, after all this- well, he’s going to follow his beloved’s example and do something drastic and ill-advised in true Fëanorian style
  * Instead they are swamped with a wave of festering targetless rage turned on itself and helpless hopelessness and furious despairing duty and numb bitter hatred and an endless stretch of nothing that yet brings no relief. Fingon braces against it and clutches Maedhros with both hands, and if this makes him _worse-_
  * He doesn’t know if his heart is breaking or healing when Lord Námo regains control of himself and settles heavy on his throne, and Maedhros looks up at him with the first, truest, deepest relief Fingon has seen on his face since their worries were petty and their troubles few. There is an ancient fragile thread of hope in there, long lost, carefully unspooling into the larger tapestry of his being-
  * _You **understand,**_ Maedhros whispers, awe and longing in his eyes
  * Námo steps down from his throne and folds around him, arms embracing him and deep hooded cloak encasing him in unexpected restful peace
  * _Your Doom is rescinded,_ the Vala murmurs to him
  * For the first time in Ages of the Sun, Maedhros weeps and feels better for having done so



* * *

  * Outside Tirion is panicking and inside they have sons to mourn and children who are as fearful of the sudden dark as they are their eldest brothers’ fates and they cannot find comfort in each other’s grief
  * It is a long time, before Finwë can order them to rest
  * In the meantime, Námo has called upon his sister Nienna to attend to his two newest charges, and sent word to the other Valar of Melkor’s brutal murder of the princes, and left his Halls to speak to his brother Írmo
  * The three of them aren’t certain this is the best course of action, but if they do nothing, the preventable could come to pass. And Eru, as Írmo points out to his brother and sister, could very well have simply sent the princes back to their own Halls if His singular concern was the souls of Eldar being outside the bounds of Arda



* * *

  * The Dream of Fëanáro, Nerdanel, Ñolofinwë, and Anarië, As Constructed From The Lives of Maedhros Fëanorion and Fingon Fingolfinion, As Edited by The Lords and Lady of the Fëa for Immediate Relevance and to Minimize Secondhand Trauma: 
    * Fëanor draws sword on Fingolfin, and is exiled to Formenos. Finwë goes with him, and Nerdanel stays behind with her husband’s brothers and their wives, and everyone feels betrayed
    * Melkor reveals himself once the damage is irreparable. Finwë is slain defending the Silmarils
    * Fëanor and his sons swear to Eru Ilúvatar, and there is-
    * Blood in the water at Alqualondë
    * Frigid death on the Helcaraxë
    * Burning in Beleriand
    * The Doom of the Noldor
    * Fëanor and five of his sons burn Amrod alive. It is not counted as the Second Kinslaying, but it is. Fëanor burns in turn
    * Maedhros and Morgoth both know the other lies, but the Lord of Darkness wins regardless
    * Maglor tries to manage his brothers and their followers, and Maedhros is torn apart in Angband’s dungeons, and forced back together wrong, and torn apart again
    * Elenwë dies on the Grinding Ice, and Maedhros hangs from Thangorodrim
    * The moon rises, and the sun after him. Argon dies in Lammoth
    * Fingolfin reaches Angband, and does not hear his nephew
    * The House of Finwë stare each other down across Lake Mithrim while Fingon slips away with his bow and a harp and a prayer he does not wish to speak behind his teeth
    * Manwë listens, when he finally does
    * Fingolfin’s eldest son has disappeared in the night and his youngest son was lost in battle and his last remaining son struggles with his grief and his daughter refuses to so much as look across the lake
    * The Fëanorians have lost their mother and their father and their youngest and now their eldest brothers, and turn on each other in myriad tiny, everyday ways to express the bigger things they cannot bring themselves to say
    * Fingon brings Maedhros back. It doesn’t help as much as they could have wished
    * Maedhros hands the crown to Fingolfin. His brothers only fall in line because he has returned from the Enemy’s stronghold more fey and fell and full of fire than their father, even at his last
    * The House of Finwë scatters across Beleriand. They win one great engagement of the war. They have a feast. Turgon and Aredhel disappear, and only Aredhel reappears. The Long Peace settles
    * And burns
    * Ard-Galen has become the Gasping Dust. Orcs and Balrogs and dragons crawl through central Beleriand. The only news Fingolfin and Fingon have in Hithlum, holding the western line with the high heights of the Mountains of Shadow to serve as their walls, is that Tol Sirion has fallen and opened the way into Talath Dirnen and the Falas beyond that; and of the fall of Dorthonion; and that orcs have taken Mount Rerir, and that the Cavalry of the March was routed at the Gap, and that the Pass of Aglon is spewing death into Himlad, and they know that Maedhros will bring Himring down on his own head before he lets it fall but he was surrounded months ago and the entire force of the Enemy is between them, if he still lives
    * Fingon commands the Cavalry of the West, but even he cannot stop his father when Fingolfin rides out in the great madness of his rage at the loss of all his children and nephews and nieces but the one he is leaving behind and Galadriel safe within the Girdle of Melian, and the armies of Morgoth mistake the High King of the Noldor for Oromë, and he lands seven blows on the greatest of the Valar before he is slain. He has outdone Fëanor in every way
    * Fingon is alone in Barad Eithel at the headwaters of the Sirion, and he speaks with Thorondir one last time when he brings news of Fingolfin’s death after bearing his body to Gondolin. The armies and the lesser lords and his father’s council proclaim him High King
    * Everything is in ruins and he is the last of his House but for Turgon, and Thorondir wouldn’t even tell him where Gondolin is
    * Fingon doesn’t think he’s going to live much longer, or that Hithlum will survive. Turgon will be the last of Noldor. He sends his son away to Círdan, and tries not to feel like he is losing the last piece of his family in the process
    * Meanwhile, Maedhros is glaring down from the walls of Himring at orcs and Balrogs and dragons. Lothlann is ravaged and the Pass of Aglon is open and the Cavalry of the March lost the Gap months ago
    * Maglor and Caranthir are with him. Caranthir had fled to Maglor when Mount Rerir fell, his wife and young daughters dead behind him. Maedhros had seen Aglon swarming with orcs ravaging Himlad to his west and the Gap burning where Balrogs tread in the east, and chosen the east
    * They don’t know what happened to Celegorm and Curufin and Celebrimbor. Amras roamed Estolad as its titular Lord, but he’s never really been one for fortresses, and had no great host. He was far behind the front lines; he wasn’t supposed to _need_ them
    * Dorthonion is gone. Doriath stands, if only because Morgoth has not come out directly to challenge Melian. They are surrounded and the world is on fire
    * He can see the gentle morning mists of Hithlum in his dreams, burnt away. Fingon’s cavalry as dead and charred as Maglor’s had been, Glaurung returned for vengeance on the Crown Prince who had driven him away once and then ridden, laughing and happy, across Ard-Galen to Himring to tell his beloved all about Morgoth’s newest scheme and how the Dark Lord still hadn’t learned to guard against Manwë even to the most meager and bedraggled of arrow-fletching
    * Of the Arafinweans the only one who is surely safe is Galadriel. Aegnor and Angrod died with Dorthonion, and Tol Sirion had been among the first casualties of this onslaught. Finrod and Orodreth never reappeared, after
    * The Ñolofinweans- no one outside of Gondolin knows where it is but Aredhel, and she disappeared into the cursèd forests so long ago. If it has fallen, and Turgon with it, he doubts anyone would even know. The mountains had given no protection to any of the sons of Arafinwë, nor to Celegorm and Curufin and Celebrimbor. He can find no hope in his heart for the lands of Hithlum, for his only uncle on this side of the sea and for Fin-
    * He cannot weep. Not now, and perhaps ever
    * He gave over the crown to Fingolfin at Mithrim, and he would not take it back up, but-
    * _‘A king is he that can hold his own,’_ he had once scorned of Thingol’s claim to all of Beleriand as he sat behind his wife’s power in Menegroth and gave no aid to those he called his people
    * There is no one else, and no one is coming. He is the eldest of the House of Fëanor and the eldest of the House of Finwë this side of the sea, and of all the Eldar and the Ainur, it is said amongst those of the north and the east, Morgoth fears firstly Varda Star-Kindler and secondly Maedhros One-Handed and thirdly none other in all of creation, and only one of the two has ever come to save them
    * Maedhros takes a deep breath, and turns north, and burns as mightily as the world around him
    * He closes the Pass of Aglon. He harrows Himlad and northern Estolad and breaks orcs and routs Balrogs in Thargelion with the Blue Mountains and Azaghâl King of Belegost as the anvil to his hammer. Their combined forces make battle-cries in the name of Mahal and of the Lord of Himring as they drive northwards and reach the Gap. They hold it, more or less, and fight a bitter battle to regain Mount Rerir, and skirmishing ranges out across Lothlann
    * Maedhros looks at his maps, and at the people he has, and-
    * It’s stupid, it’s unwise, but they have to _(he has to)_ know
    * He leaves Maglor and Caranthir in conditional charge of their old holdings. He leaves his own lieutenant Himring and Aglon, and has Azaghâl take command of them all. His brothers may not like it but he is Maedhros One-Handed, Eldest Son of Fëanor, Scourge of Morgoth, Great Lord of the East, and even the Sindar of these lands have been calling him High King of the Noldor since all contact with West Beleriand was lost. Their own people will revolt against them if they disobey him now, and Azaghâl has more soldiers and better supply lines besides
    * _Don’t die,_ she tells him as he prepares to leave with a small force. They will be riding hard and fast across Lothlann and the ruins of Ard-Galen to the Mountains of Shadow and Hithlum behind them and Barad Eithel at the Headwaters guarding the way to it. He does not know when or if he will be back, nor how many will still be with him if he does. _And come back quickly, or I can’t guarantee you’ll have any brothers left_
    * They lose some people in their furious charge across the devastated front lawn of Angband, but not as many as Maedhros could have feared. He flies his banners high and the orcs know well of the Elf-Lord who will snarl back at them in Black Speech before a massacre. They only attack by cover of darkness, and only ever to pick off scouts or their rearguard. As soon as they see him coming, they flee
    * Too many days later they sight Barad Eithel three hours past dawn, and they do not slow. The guards on the wall recognize Maedhros’s banners and a great cry goes up; the gates open for them, and the city is full of Noldor and Edain, and people are trying to direct him to the High King-
    * Maedhros outpaces them all and the High King’s Honor Guard open both doors of the throne room for him when they see him coming
    * It is Fingon. Maedhros falls to his knees before him and kisses his cousin’s-beloved’s-king’s hand to hide his tears, and hails him as High King of the Noldor and his own liege lord
    * When he looks up, Fingon is crying as well, and draws him to his feet and proclaims the joyous arrival of the Lord of Himring to the watching court
    * Later, Fingon locks the door of his private quarters behind them and Maedhros calls him _Kánya_ for the first time in breaths between desperate kisses
    * Nelyafinwë and Findekáno they had been in Tirion, _‘Third Finwë’_ and _‘Skilled Ruler’_ , their very names yet another battleground for their fathers’ feud. If Fëanor had lived to hear his eldest call Fingolfin’s heir _‘my Káno’_ and _‘my commander’_ all in one word with the reverence of a beloved, or to see Maedhros drop to his knees to honor him before a throne-
    * Well, his father has already proved that he can and will spontaneously combust
    * Later, Maedhros will tell Fingon that Maglor and Caranthir were alive when he left them, and that the east was secured. Later, Fingon will tell Maedhros that Turgon lives, even if they still don’t know where Gondolin is
    * For now, they hold each other
    * _Marry me,_ Fingon asks for the fifth time, and Maedhros refuses him for the sixth. He loves him, but Fingon could better choose another
    * Maedhros returns home via the south, going around Doriath. One of Finrod’s captains spots the banners of the Lord of Himring in a camp by the Fens of Sirion and they backtrack into the hills to be greeted with great relief by the King of Nargothrond and Orodreth his nephew, and Celegorm and Curufin and Celebrimbor. Later, on the other end of the Andram, far-riders see the Prince of the House of Fëanor in the distance, and Amras pounds across the plains of Estolad towards them from Amon Ereb
    * He returns to Himring, and Azaghâl to her kingdom-city in the Blue Mountains, and all settle into not-peace
    * Fingon is giddy for weeks afterwards whenever he thinks of looking up at the doors of the Great Hall opening and _Maedhros, Maedhros, Maedhros-_
    * His joy buoys everyone around him, and then _Finrod_ arrives, bringing news from further east that the Himring delegation has reached their lands safely and discovered Amras, Celembrimbor, Curufin, Celegorm, Orodreth, and his own self along the way
    * _They are not alone they are not alone-!_
    * Maedhros looks at his maps, and asks Amras for the best of his far-riders, and starts writing letters
    * Curufin and Celegorm speak against Finrod in Nargothrond. Finrod dies in Tol Sirion in a werewolf pit, and Curufin and Celegorm detain Lúthien. Celebrimbor turns on his father with the might of what Fëanorian host they’d kept from Aglon, and Orodreth drives them from Nargothrond altogether
    * Maedhros exiles his thrice-dispossessed brothers to Amon Ereb and travels to Hithlum
    * A sixth time, Fingon asks Maedhros to marry him. A seventh time, Maedhros refuses
    * Fingon gathers forces in the west, and Maedhros calls again on King Azaghâl, and-
    * They are betrayed. All Hithlum is fallen, Mithrim and Dor-Lómin and Nevrast. The Gap and Aglon and Rerir are lost again, and Himring is ruled by thralls
    * Azaghâl is carried dead from the field. No one can do the same for Fingon
    * Maedhros pulls his brothers back to Amon Ereb, and he holds it, and he _holds it,_ and he **_holds it-_**
    * There is not enough weeping in the world to give him even the barest measure of succor from his heart
    * Nargothrond falls
    * The dwarves of Nogrod kill Thingol, and Melian goes finally to Valinor, and Lúthien dies for the second and final time, and Dior the Beautiful has a Silmaril and Doriath is undefended
    * Everything is dead, destroyed, and gone; and he is Doomed. He can save nothing and no one
    * But
    * There is the Oath
    * If the Oath is fulfilled, his family will not be condemned to Everlasting Darkness. He will save his father and his brothers and if that is all he can do-
    * Celegorm and Curufin and Caranthir die in Menegroth, and there are two children dead in a dark forest somewhere and a third missing, and no Silmaril, and they are Kinslayers again
    * Gondolin falls. News reaches them, eventually, that Erenion Gil-Galad Fingonion is High King of the Noldor
    * Maedhros remembers when Fingon had drawn a black-haired silver-eyed baby from the wreckage of a nameless settlement in the numerous hollows in the hills around Himring, and, after a long moment, turned to him. They’d been alone in those minutes, the few riders they’d brought with them fanned out to search for whoever had done this thing
    * Fingon had looked him in the eyes, every inch the Crown Prince of the Noldor, and told him: _Five times you have refused to wed me, and perhaps I cannot make you my husband, nor can we live together, nor speak of our love, but I will not pretend to another. If a heir I must have besides my hidden brother, then a child of your lands will be the son of my heart. He is Erenion, Scion of Kings, motherless but of two royal fathers_
    * Maedhros had looked into the silver eyes of that child and named him Gil-Galad
    * He does not go the Isle of Balar to hail the man Fingon had wished to be their son as High King
    * He is a Kinslayer twice over and he cannot bear to live with himself and he thinks he may die of it but he does not, he does not die even he is certain he wishes to and Maglor is tight-eyed and quietly terrified and refuses to go far from him. Amras is running Amon Ereb and leading their people
    * He’s the youngest of them, he shouldn’t have to. Maedhros has a _duty,_ he-
    * _No more, no longer,_ he tells his brothers. He hates what he is and he cannot undo what he was done but at least he can not do it again. _The Oath does nothing but lead us to evil. Will it not be Everlasting Darkness for us now regardless?_
    * Amras stares hard at him for a long moment before turning and leaving, slamming the door behind him
    * Maglor stays in his seat next to him and takes his hand. Maedhros looks at him and sees doubt. Resignation. His brother does not believe he has strength enough to hold
    * His brother is right
    * The Silmaril is in the Havens of Sirion, their news says. Dior’s daughter lives and is to wed Turgon’s grandson
    * They are to be wed under the eyes of Galadriel and her husband before the last Princess of Noldor goes to live in the court of Gil-Galad, their news says
    * Celebrimbor is in the Havens of Sirion and holds its defenses against the evils of the north, their news says
    * _Family,_ the word haunts him, taunts him. _Kinslayer_ hisses in his ears, echoing accusingly in his conscious
    * _Traitor,_ his thoughts accuse, when he sees Amras leading, Maglor watching, the graves for Celegorm, Caranthir, and Curufin rimed with frost. _Kinslayer!_
    * Following the Oath has led them to evil but he stands in the shadow of the grave markers and Amras is on the walls above looking down and Maglor is lurking watching them both and Maedhros can feel them all, the press of living and the dead, all elves are kin but there is kin and there is kin and his father is dead and his brothers and most of them he led to their deaths-
    * The walls of Amon Ereb are not high enough to be comfortable. This is a palisade fort, made of wood and earth and little stone. Amras is standing above him and he has always been strong in ósanwë and Maedhros has not once been unaware of how angry his youngest remaining brother has been ever since he denied their father’s Oath, Amrod’s grave is decades lost on the shores of Drengist and _was it all for nothing-_
    * He is a Kinslayer twice over and if he takes up the Oath once more surely he will be again but if he does not and he leaves it unfulfilled he leaves his kin even closer doomed more thoroughly than even Lord Námo had made them
    * He can be a Kinslayer despised by all but his family or he can be a Kinslayer who has nothing and no one left, not even the barest comfort of knowing he has kept to his convictions; a Kinslayer _and_ an Oathbreaker, a Kinslayer who has damned his own brothers and father to Everlasting Darkness and has never been able to safeguard a single person he loves
    * If he was not the eldest son and nominally in charge Amras and Maglor would have already stripped him of his name and banished him into the wilds to die a traitor among the orcs for abandoning their family like this
    * The Silmaril is in the Havens of Sirion, and so is Celebrimbor, and the Fëanorian star is on both sides of the slaughter. Maglor sings their nephew into a stupor instead of running him through and Maedhros corners Elwing
    * The Silmaril is gone and he is a Kinslayer three times over and he can see ships sailing from Balar bearing Gil-Galad’s standard
    * Maglor leaves the city with two boys who will eventually call him Ada; Maedhros flees from a man who never did
    * They return to Amon Ereb
    * A Silmaril rises in the sky; Elrond and Elros are eleven. Maedhros is used to human children from living in Himring for so long, but Maglor had no families to live alongside, leading the Cavalry of the March, so Maedhros is more involved than either of them anticipated he would be
    * But Elros and Elrond start calling him _‘Ada Maedhros’_ not too long after his brother becomes _‘Ada Maglor’_ and they wear the Fëanorian star and maybe it’s all for lack of other options but still he sits up nights, staring at the Doriath-Haven Silmaril in the sky and repeats _‘they’re my sons, they’re of the House of Fëanor, Eärendil is their family, we’re one-third finished’_ in his head until he believes that as much as he can believe anything, these days
    * Elrond sits with him, those last nights, watching him, reading him. He knows too much of Maedhros’s traumas for any child, but he has Maia in him and a strong strain of sight besides, so there was no helping that Maedhros has never spoken of any of them
    * It’s not called the Star of High Hope for nothing. Elrond watches him that final night, when he believes it as much as he can, and then looks up at the sky, and then looks back
    * _May Gil-Estel shine for you for-ever,_ he says solemnly. Maedhros finds this far too portentous for a child, and he remembers Galadriel at the equivalent age. _And return to you what you have lost_
    * Ingwë’s son and Arafinwë have arrived with the Vanyar-Noldorin host, and Eönwë with that of the Maiar, and the sea is rising
    * They lose Amon Ereb. The twins turned thirteen eight months ago
    * They retreat into the Taur-im-Duinath. The twins are fourteen
    * They retreat into Ossiriand. The twins are sixteen and four months
    * Maedhros pulls them back to Belegost, and Azaghâl’s son gives them a warmer welcome than they deserve. The twins are nearly twenty, and know the use of sword and song and soul. Elrond is a great rider, and Maedhros closes his eyes against an image of Fingon when he attempts mounted archery. He is relieved when neither twin has much talent for that style of combat
    * Elrond and Elros turn twenty-one in Belegost, and the much-reduced host of Fëanorian loyalists celebrates what they suspect is the coming of age of peredhel, given that they have been developing a little more than half as fast as an elven child would, but not quite so fast as a human one. Maglor has commissioned them ornaments of silver and gold and jewels to befit their station as Noldorin princes of the House of Ñolofinwë by descent from Idril Turgoniel
    * These are Findekáno’s great-grandnephews. Eärendil is his grandnephew. Maedhros had known Idril as little Itarillë in Valinor, Findekáno’s niece who tagged along behind Artanis-become-Galadriel, fascinated by her hair, when all three branches of the House of Finwë were forced to socialize
    * Both the boys can fight, but Elros is the one more likely to throw himself into the thick of it, so Maedhros gifts him with a sword Curufin had made for Celebrimbor but not given to him before Morgoth had sent down Balrogs and dragons and broken the peace
    * He gives Elrond the sword Fingon had given him to replace the one he’d dashed across Lothlann and the Gasping Dust with, that he’d battered against Morgoth’s forces in the east for months
    * Neither sword has been used in any Kinslayings. Maedhros hasn’t even unsheathed Fingon’s gift since before Doriath. It’s important that neither blade carry any potential Doom
    * They have their own front on the War of Wrath to fight, here in the Blue Mountains, and while he’s not sure if the boys fall under the Doom of the Noldor given Lúthien and Beren and Thingol and Melian, he’s equally unsure and more worried about if they fall under the specific Doom of the House of Fëanor. If he still prayed, he would pray they do not; trying to mitigate potential Dooms will have to do
    * The boys are fifty-five by the time Morgoth is bound and cast into the Void. They have been fighting all their lives, and Maedhros and Maglor can only be thankful that the peredhel still have the look of young-though-grown Edain and not old men. It seems they will have a life beyond violence and darkness
    * Elros has been gone awhile, having ridden off to Gil-Galad and Arafinwë to lead the remnants of the survivors of Doriath and the Havens and many of the Edain who are still fighting
    * Elrond is a healer, and refused to leave two so obviously injured that he cares about so fiercely, nor the remnants of their host and the dwarves of Belegost who fight alongside them. _‘They have Maiar,’_ he’d said, when they’d tried to get him to follow his brother. _‘And healers of Valinor. I will not take myself from you.’_
    * He and Elros speak with ósanwë that can stretch a continent between the two of them, and so that’s how they hear that Elros had delightedly greeted Celebrimbor as _‘Cousin Tyelperinquar!’_ when they first met, then proceeded to carry on a full conversation in properly-pronounced and elegantly-styled Fëanorian Quenya, including offering him his own sword, since _‘Uncle Curufinwë made it for you, Atto Maitimo told me’_ , much to the deep consternation of everyone present
    * _‘Everyone present’_ included Gil-Galad, Círdan, Arafinwë, Ingwë, Anairë, and _Eönwë_
    * Elrond seems absolutely delighted that his brother is causing such genteel havoc that no one can politely object to. The boys were raised by the greatest bard of the Noldor and the only one of Fëanor’s sons anyone trusted to use the family way with words for diplomacy and peacemaking, they have the proper appreciation for these sorts of things
    * Maedhros is less thrilled that Elros snubbed his great-great-grandmother Anairë like that. She’d put up with enough of the rivalry between her husband and his older brother in Valinor, before they’d all left, without now having her first encounter with her granddaughter’s grandson being him implicitly rejecting her for the Fëanorians. He has Elrond open himself to Elros so he can deliver a stern and thorough cross-continent lecture to the boy through Elrond’s ears. He finishes by admonishing him to spend time with the rest of the family- _yes I mean High King Arafinwë too!_
    * He only learns later that Elrond and Elros set this up to happen specifically when Elros was having a private visit with Anairë and Arafinwë. The other side of a continent and a war and an Oath and three Kinslayings, and the boys are earnestly trying to heal a familial rift begun before the sun had even been thought of
    * Maglor cries about this
    * Angband has been harrowed and Beleriand is breaking and Maedhros and Maglor and Elrond are camped three hours from the main host, well-hidden
    * Elrond tells his brother exactly where they are, of course. Elros brings Celebrimbor with him
    * It’s really only a reunion for the twins
    * Still, Celebrimbor agrees to stay the night when Elros announces he’s not leaving yet, and that’s something
    * Gil-Estel is high in the sky. Maedhros watches it for a while, takes a deep breath, and thinks _‘one-third done’_
    * He couldn’t defeat Morgoth and all but one of his brothers is dead and he’s a Kinslayer thrice-over but there’s a _chance-_
    * He writes a formal request to Eönwë under Gil-Estel’s light. Elros takes it back to camp with him in the morning
    * They are refused. They are told to submit themselves to judgement
    * Maedhros’s tragedy is that he knows his own mind. It is not that of one possessed, nor that of one compelled, nor that of one who thinks he does no wrong. It is one consumed with the kind of clear-sighted sane madness that only comes from being unable to _stop,_ because the consequences of losing are worse than whatever you have to do to win
    * It’s a madness that’s served him well, in his time. It is a madness born of Angband more than anything, of enduring through it all because more pain and more chances to goad his torturers into becoming murderers was better than submitting. It is a madness that let him build his fortress and look north through the Long Peace, let him stare down from Himring at a world on fire and decide _the fire in me is as strong as that outside my flesh and it will bend to my will or be overcome_ and then harrow the northeast, let him sprint across scorched Lothlann and burnt Ard-Galen to Hithlum, let him call up Men and Dwarves and Elves in a great alliance at least one-third Doomed from the start, let him lead the House of Fëanor in controlled retreat instead of slaughter-filled rout from the Nírnaeth, let him hold Amon Ereb that was no great fortress and had no real natural defenses when all else the Noldor had built in Beleriand had fallen, let him pull the last vestiges of his House and their hosts to Belegost and hold one war-front of the Wrath when the other was held with far greater forces and unfallen Maiar and elves with no Doom upon them
    * And yes, that same madness let him look at Doriath and at the Havens of Sirion, and follow all efforts at peaceful resolution that had always been Doomed because _‘to evil end shall all things turn that they begin well’_ with Kinslayings he entered into through no orders nor loyalties but his own
    * If they do not retrieve those Silmarils, his father and brothers will be lost to the Everlasting Darkness. He doesn’t care what happens to him, he’s certain he’s damned regardless, but he _cannot_ do that his father, who’d been so lost already by the time the Trees were killed; nor Amrod who hadn’t even lived to see their father’s death; nor Amras who had been overly-comfortable with death in a way Maedhros knew too well since his twin’s burning; nor Curufin who has Celebrimbor to be a father to; nor Caranthir who has a wife and daughters awaiting him in the Halls; Celegorm who could still repair his relationships and even if Oromë will not take him back can still have the unshadowed wilds of Aman to range and hunt; Maglor who has a Sindarin wife who died at the Nírnaeth under no Doom and is surely already reembodied in Valinor-
    * He’d never married Fingon. Gil-Galad has never known him as a father. He’d lost control of his brothers on more than one occasion and led them into sin in more; he’d dispossessed the House of Fëanor in favor of Fingolfin. His father would not want to see him and his mother must surely despise them all. He’d stolen Elrond and Elros even if it had been Maglor who’d originally carried them off, they’d learn better eventually, and so many times he’d told Fingon that he could find better and surely Kánya hated him now anyway-
    * Morgoth had had him for fifty years. There are things broken in him that cannot be fixed, a darkness the Vala had instilled within him that he cannot be rid of. Everyone else only seemed to see the fire, but he knows what lies inside it
    * Maglor wants to surrender to Eönwë. Maybe, if they repented, the Valar would eventually return the Silmarils-
    * Maedhros does not believe they will, and further knows what the Valar will see in his eyes when they look, and he would imprison himself for his crimes but if any other put those chains upon him- and if any were a _Vala-_
    * He will not incite slaughter in the Blessed Lands again, though Blessed they would not be for him but Cursed, because he would rage and struggle as endlessly and as hopelessly as he had in and against Angband, and with as much success, and he would have no peace without his family safe and without his freedom, and so no one else would, either
    * _You don’t have to come with me,_ he tells Maglor. Truly, it only takes one of them surviving and not relenting to free their family. And Maedhros is _good_ at relentless. _Take your chance, and go home_
    * Maglor follows him anyway. They turn over command to Elrond, who thinks they are going to surrender and is already plotting how to mitigate their sentences, sneak into camp, and become Kinslayers yet another time
    * Eönwë lets them go rather than damn any who would try to kill them with that sin
    * The Silmaril burns and he is not surprised. He is a murderer and a child-thief and every good he has attempted has come to ruin in the end and he cannot even love properly, he could not give himself to Fingon and some days he hates his father and Morgoth had him for fifty years and in the dark he has been mistaken for some creature of the Enemy often enough-
    * The continent is breaking and it is due to the involvement of many Valar but Morgoth must be delighting in this destruction. He always did favor volcanoes
    * Sulfur-stink and magma-glow remind him of Angband
    * Maedhros consigns himself to the Everlasting Darkness and steps into thin air. There will be no Manwë-sent eagle, this time
    * Fingon has been dead for one hundred and fifteen years by this point
    * The first person to see him in the Halls after his own father and grandfather is his Uncle Fëanor, who first thanked him for saving Maedhros but then shouted for much longer about _‘how **dare** you debase him like that-’_
    * He listens for maybe a minute before turning and walking away. Fëanor _hates_ people ignoring him
    * Not that Fingolfin is really any happier that he’s still so attached to his cousin, but Maedhros had been the one kneeling and saying _‘my King’_ and not the other way around, so he doesn’t get any yelling from that end
    * Generally he avoids both of them. Aredhel is here, and his sister doesn’t judge. At least Maedhros had truly loved him – you couldn’t say that about Eöl. Anyway, she’d been friends with Celegorm. They were both used to frequent joint father-uncle disapproval
    * By the time Maedhros is clinging to the strangling noose of his Oath as his last desperate hope, Fingon wants to be able to shout at him _‘no, your father and your brothers are here, they are safe, the Oath does not bind you, **stop-**!’_
    * But he can’t
    * He wishes, instead, as he is horribly sure Maedhros is also doing, that his cousin manages to get himself killed before he can do anything worse
    * He doesn’t, of course. Maedhros is too good at war for that
    * He can only die at his own hand, and they know it’s happening because it’s one of the few times the family gathers together in the Halls and the only time any of them but Finwë and Fëanor see Míriel-
    * Míriel knows he’s died, she’s been weaving the House of Finwë on Vairë’s looms for centuries
    * For a little while, they think Maedhros has only refused the call to Mandos, and that _hurts-_
    * But it’s worse, when Lord Námo comes to them, and Vairë and Nienna with him, to tell the House of Finwë that Maitimo Nelyafinwë had the strength of will to do something the Valar thought impossible, and has cast his fëa into the Void with his utter conviction that he is evil and irredeemable and belongs in the Outer Darkness with such monsters as Morgoth and Ungoliant
    * They are assured that Ulmo has been dispatched to Maglor to inform him that under _no_ circumstances is he to follow his brother’s example, and that the Oath has been void all along
    * The Valar, _apparently,_ had thought the House of Fëanor have known this _the entire time,_ and were using it as an excuse. It was so _self-evident_ that Eru Ilúvatar would never accept such a thing as Everlasting Darkness over any object, no matter how wondrous or holy, you see. They _had_ to have known
    * Fëanor and his sons do a lot of yelling. Námo actually stays and listens to it all, head bowed
    * _When I Doomed you all, I intended you to do as Arafinwë did, and return and repent,_ he tells them when the yelling has reached a temporary lull point. _Morgoth is the greatest of all the Ainur in his power, and in the end I think only Eru may truly stop him. I meant for the Doom to be a warning of the truth of what you would face, and of what you were likely to bring to pass, if you did not stop and reconsider your course. I did not want it to be a prophecy, nor a binding curse_
    * A lot of the rest of the House of Finwë joins in on the yelling, then. It’s the first time perhaps ever that Fëanor and Fingolfin have truly had all the same reasons for agreeing on something
    * Maglor is absolutely not assured by his message from the Valar, and self-destructs in the more conventional way. He fades quickly into nothing but the Noldolantë on the sea winds
    * Fëanor’s started screaming without words. A fëa doesn’t need to breathe, so he can go on and on and on without rest, and the heat is blinding. No one can get near him. He doesn’t even stop for Míriel
    * The Doom of the Noldor is lifted, as is the Exile for everyone but Galadriel. Some of the dead of Beleriand begin to leave the Halls. Turgon opines that it will probably take a while, for any of them
    * Fingon doesn’t care. Maedhros is not in here and he is not out there, he is beyond the world in eternal torment-
    * If he could die of grief, he would. But he’s already dead
    * Celebrimbor eventually comes to the Halls, dead of Sauron, and no one dares say that they wish Maedhros was here for him. He was the one who’d survived this before
    * Fëanor’s still screaming. He started up again when Sauron began torturing his grandson, and he hasn’t stopped since. He’s nothing but light and heat, now. The Halls warp a little around him. Námo lingers, and you can catch him discreetly making repairs
    * Fingolfin, Argon, Turgon, Elenwë, and Aredhel are ready to leave at the beginning of what turns out to be the last decades of the Second Age. They don’t want to go without him, Fingon knows, but-
    * There is nothing for him here, if all his family are gone. Finrod and his brothers left a while ago. Arafinwë is reportedly very happy
    * Námo sits with him and says nothing. Nienna weeps, and it does not help much
    * His mother is in Tirion. She fought in the War of Wrath and survived to return victorious. Idril is there too, and her husband Tuor, the only of the Edain to ever be allowed on these shores
    * And- there’s Nerdanel
    * He doesn’t know how she feels about her sons and her husband, but if she still loves them, they will have each other to grieve with; if she doesn’t she at least can’t blame Celebrimbor for any of this mess, surely, and she deserves to know that her grandson is healing, though he’ll probably only leave the Halls once he can face being in a world that has Sauron in it
    * Sauron can’t get him in the Halls, you see, so he can feel safe here
    * Fingon wonders, if he’d killed Maedhros on Thangorodrim, if they could have been leaving together now, Maedhros feeling safe enough to return to life with Morgoth banished from Arda
    * Fëanor is still screaming when they leave
    * Fingon tries to hold himself together, tries to be Findekáno Ñolofinwion, Prince of the Noldor returning home to Tirion; but no word had reached the Halls that, in Valinor, Beleriand wasn’t spoken of openly. The War of Wrath, maybe, but then only in terms of success and victory
    * There are no kind words for the House of Fëanor. They are Kinslayers of the worst degree, monsters and half-spawn of Morgoth himself
    * The worst words are saved for Fëanor or Maedhros. _‘Self-Slain’_ they’re calling him, and relating horror stories in quiet corners and private homes of Doriath and the Havens and ‘ _even the orcs feared him-’_
    * There are people in Tirion Fingon _knows_ from Beleriand, who lived and thrived in the Long Peace that only ever held because Maedhros put himself in Himring and spread his brothers out around him and faced north, always north; people from his father’s court, from his _own_ court when he was High King, who’d praised the Lord of Himring for how he’d saved the east during the Dagor Bragollach; others who had died in the Nírnaeth but who had shared in the heady feeling of possible victory beforehand because it was Fingon the Valiant and Maedhros Scourge of Morgoth who were leading them-
    * _You loved him!_ Fingon wants to scream at them. _You hailed his victories and cheered at the sight of his banners in battle; it was your honor to host him if he was passing through! You praise my father for the Long Peace as though he held the open east instead of Hithlum in the west with her high mountain walls!_
    * They must see what he cannot say in his eyes, because people avoid looking at him. Fingolfin has at least enough decency and fair-mindedness about it all to look slightly uncomfortable whenever it’s clear someone is eliding Maedhros from any discussion of the time before the Nírnaeth Arnoediad
    * People say that there are Himring loyalists returned from the Halls who would still swear allegiance to Maedhros if he miraculously reappeared. Apparently they struck out into the north and settled somewhere near Formenos, but no one can, or will, tell him where exactly
    * He does go looking for them. He doesn’t find anything, and wonders pessimistically if it’s just a rumor that lets people have a nebulous but manageable specter of the Fëanorians somewhere _‘out there’_ , where they can be boogeymen but never a real threat
    * Fingon doesn’t want to return to Tirion. By now, he’s learned that Nerdanel has been in deep isolation ever since Alqualondë, and that supposedly only Mahtan and Aulë ever see her
    * He sets out for the Forges of Aulë anyway
    * Nerdanel either doesn’t want to see him because she is furious with her sons, or because it hurts too deeply to think long on them. He’s not sure which, and doesn’t feel comfortable pressing Mahtan for clarification
    * Mahtan is glad for the news that his great-grandson is improving and will likely be the first of the House of Fëanor to be released, and says he’ll pass it along
    * He confides to him, after Fingon has been there a while, that his daughter has been even more reclusive than before since Aulë had come to them with the news of Maedhros
    * Aulë had offered Nerdanel the Silmaril Maedhros had died with. She’d refused it utterly, and has seen no one but her father since
    * Fingon leaves quickly after that, because Aulë has been watching him like he thinks _Fingon_ is the next-best person to offer it to
    * He lives with Aredhel, not in Tirion and not near it either. They have claimed a space on the southern border of the vast northern forest that run all the way to Kemensinqina and the Forges of Aulë in the east where a jut of the Pelóri turns inland and past that, further north, to Formenos and then into the truly wild lands beyond
    * These are not the Woods of Oromë; those are south of Valinor, south of Valimar and Tirion-upon-Túna and Alqualondë and Tol Eresseä and Avallónë it’s city
    * But Fingon sees Oromë, sometimes, in the distance talking with Aredhel when she leaves or returns from hunting for them, when he’s sitting outside and listening to the birds
    * He’s back in Valinor, forgiven and reembodied. They’d surely speak to him, if he started to talk in their own language. Manwë would surely hear him now, if he went riding into the teeth of the wind and bent his bow, or climbed the Pelóri to the tops where they say the air is so thin it’s hard to catch your breath
    * He does none of this
    * Gil-Galad dies and leaves the Halls. He presents himself to Arafinwë at court in Tirion, as all of the noble returned Noldor must, and Arafinwë must have told him where to find his father, because he turns up one day after lunch
    * Fingon isn’t sure what to say and Gil-Galad rambles nervously about talking with Elrond about not knowing your Real Parents, and _it’s awful how he’s so attached to those Fëanorians, how dare they raise them like that when they’re Idril’s grandchildren, even after all this time Elrond talks like a Fëanorian in Quenya and clarifies which ‘father’ he’s talking about by their names, I **saw** what they did to the Havens-_
    * Fingon’s heart breaks some more, and he tells Gil-Galad that it’s all right to be the most attached to Círdan, he understands, he sent him away so young
    * Gil-Galad flicks his eyes away, and back
    * _And my mother?_ he asks
    * Fingon had told Maedhros he would not pretend, but this man who should have been their son hates him, so says: _My beloved would not begrudge you either, and I am sorry, but that call to Mandos went unanswered_
    * Gil-Galad leaves it be, and leaves
    * Fingon can’t even really find it in himself to be glad when Galadriel finally returns. Finrod drops by to tell them his little sister has _finally_ made it, and _hey did you hear about Sauron-!_
    * He dutifully writes to Mahtan, in case Aulë hasn’t told him, and assures him that Celebrimbor will probably be leaving the Halls soon
    * Within the year, Fingon receives a very polite letter requesting permission to visit. It’s signed _‘Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Imladris’_
    * He wonders, rather numbly, how many people across Aman are gossiping about the lack of anything in his chosen name and use-title pointing to Eärendel and Elwing and Havens, or Fingolfin and Turgon and Idril and Tuor and Gondolin, or Lúthien and Beren and Thingol and Melian and Dior and Nimloth and Doriath. Elrond is identifying himself solely in terms of his brother and as the Lord of a city he founded well outside of any allegiances to Noldor or Sindar or Houses of any sort, a city that has welcomed Elves and Dwarves, Men and Maiar. It must be a great shock to them all to meet someone so scrupulous in avoiding factions that have existed almost since the Unbegotten awoke at Cuiviénen
    * When he arrives, Elrond brings with him a spent ring of power that has the Fëanorian star engraved on the inside of the band, and a sword Fingon doesn’t recognize until Elrond places it gently in his lap and he can see the hilt clearly
    * _Maedhros gave it to me for my majority,_ Elrond tells him, quietly taking a seat on the bench next to him. _Valar,_ Gil-Galad was right, he sounds like a Son of Fëanor in Quenya, and probably in Sindarin too. It goes beyond the pronunciation – he can hear Maglor’s musical training in the careful volume of Elrond’s voice, and Maedhros’s enunciation and stress pattern in the words themselves. He must be an excellent speech-giver. They would have accepted nothing less. _He was very clear to me that he had never raised this sword to slay kin, and that I never should, either_
    * _It mattered to him, that it was gift from you_
    * Fingon died in Beleriand and so has had nothing of Maedhros but memories until this moment. He grips the sword he’d once carried as Crown Prince and then given Maedhros after he’d acclaimed his cousin High King of Noldor and himself Fingon’s loyal vassal tight, and tries not to cry hysterically
    * _I don’t know,_ Elrond says carefully, _if you know why he was doing what he did-_
    * _No, I know why he was chasing the Silmarils, he was trying to save his family- they didn’t **need** to be saved, they were **safe-** and then he-_
    * _He would have been happier if I’d killed him,_ Fingon sobs into Elrond’s shoulder as he holds him. _If I’d never prayed to Manwë, if I’d not hoped, if I’d been less selfish, he’d **be here-**_
    * Elrond lets him cry, and Fingon hears Aredhel quietly step out of the house to check on them and just as quietly retreat when she hears Maedhros’s name
    * After a while, Elrond starts to talk
    * It reminds Fingon of Maedhros when he was Maitimo Nelyafinwë, beloved first grandchild of Finwë, the great beauty of Tirion, bright like his father but so much more approachable, friendlier, more helpful, kinder than Fëanáro, happy under the light of the Trees before everything
    * He would lecture, if you gave him the chance. They never felt like lectures, because he only did it on topics he had interest in, and that passion lit up his words from the inside. Maedhros was more one for great speeches, in court or on the eve of battle, but his inner fire had never dimmed
    * These aren’t topics his cousin would ever have chosen, but Elrond seems to have been thinking on his points for quite some time. He has extensive opinions on the fallibility of the Ainur, the necessity of mercy to forestall evil, the differences between morality and justice and ethics, the horrific intersection of the Oath of Fëanor and the Doom of the Noldor, and the absolute necessity of talking about your feelings
    * Fingon thinks of Fëanor screaming endlessly in the Halls, and how people talk about his foretold presence in Mandos until the end of the world as if it is some kind of confinement or punishment, and not a testament to how he is suffering of pain that will not end because two of his sons are forever beyond his ability to help. Maedhros was not the first of his line to be unable to step away from his family
    * _It was still wrong of them,_ Fingon feels he must say, later. They are having lunch. Aredhel is still giving them their space. They’d seen her in the woods with Oromë, earlier. Elrond had nodded politely to him, and the Lord of the Hunt had nodded back. _They’d just finished slaughtering your home, and they knew Gil-Galad would be there soon, you were barely more than babes but you would have been safe. Your parents were gone, but you had closer family, and they were less-_
    * _‘Broken’_ is the only word he has for it, and he hates it
    * They’re inside now, at a table, and the sword Fingon gave away that has come back to him is leaning against one of his legs. He’s doing his best not to clutch at it the _entire_ time
    * _Many people have told me so,_ Elrond replies with such a deliberately-measured balance of nonchalance and polite gratitude that Fingon can hear Maedhros teaching a child: _‘Your words must be fair even when your thoughts are not, if you mean to keep your upper hand’_
    * Fingon is certain that if he’d been anyone else, there would have been a bite in Elrond’s reply. But they’re both here about Maedhros, so
    * _Right they may be,_ Elrond continues. _But I know not who I would be without them. Worse in sin they may have been than Eärendil and Elwing, but all parents only love as best they are able, and seldom is this as well as could be wished. Two parents I have who cast themselves for grief into the sea, and two for love into the Void, and for all I bear resentment. But forgiveness, too, and pity, and whatever mercy I may ever be able to gift to them by my own efforts, for I love them none the less for their faults_
    * It doesn’t take them very long to decide to travel to the Halls of Mandos. Fingon has little keeping him here and nothing else to do, and Elrond is a healer who has been trying to mend this family since the first time Maedhros woke him with a nightmare
    * He’s more surprised than he probably should be when Námo actually comes out to speak with them. He’s arrived with Lúthien’s great-grandson, after all
    * _Makalaurë Kánafinwë was within his rights as one of the Eldar to fade,_ Námo says after listening to Elrond. _There is nothing anyone can do for him now. Perhaps, when Arda is remade, those who have faded will be returned_
    * _And what of Maitimo Nelyafinwë?_ Elrond asks when Fingon cannot bring himself to. _Will Eru return him, after the end?_
    * _He has cast himself into the Void,_ Námo says. _I know not what may be left of him, when that time comes_
    * _I would retrieve him, if I could,_ he adds. _But the Void is outside of Arda, and we all are bound within it_
    * Fingon is angry, suddenly. _Arien and Tillion and even Eärendil travel into the Void and return, piloting the Sun and Moon and Gil-Estel!_
    * _And they leave and return through the Door of the Night and the Gates of the Morning, which stand beyond Ekkaia,_ Námo agrees
    * Elrond is regarding the Vala in contemplative silence. Fingon fumes for a time, until he realizes-
    * _Oh,_ he breathes
    * He straightens, and looks into Námo’s cloaked and hidden face. He thinks he can sense eyes, there
    * _Once have I pulled him from the heart of darkness,_ Findekáno Astaldo declares. _Into it again will I venture, and bear him forth, however many times I must until he will rest easy under the light of Arda_
    * There is no way to convey the Void to anyone who has not been there, nor Eru Ilúvatar to any who have not met Him. Námo, Nienna, and Írmo simply insert the knowledge that Fingon walked through the Door of the Night into the Void, tracked down Maedhros, and called on Eru Ilúvatar to let them back into Arda
    * Maedhros wakes to what he thinks is Everlasting Darkness of a metaphorical sort and steals the Silmarils to protect his family and Fingon wakes and realizes Maedhros is doing something stupid and rides out after him and everyone assumes they are with Tyelkormo and Írissë and Fëanáro yells at Ñolofinwë and Ñolofinwë bites back and Melkor is tracking Maedhros in the north-



* * *

  * Fëanáro snaps awake from a horrific nightmare. A moment later, he hears Nerdanel beside him inhale sharply, and let it out in a slow shudder
  * He turns to look at her
  * They’ve had the same dream, he can see it in her eyes and feel it in her mind with their marriage bond, they are two fëa eternally mixed-
  * Nerdanel shuts him out of her mind, and turns her back to him, and walks out of their bedroom
  * Anairë awakes having already soaked her pillow in tears, and reaches out blindly to clutch at her husband- she saw him in battle she saw him dead in the Halls-
  * Ñolofinwë just about rolls on top of her, so desperate is he for closeness. They sink into their marriage bond and memories of a son they don’t have in a life they have not lived wash back in forth between them, _Fingon the Valiant High King of the Noldor_ repeated over and over
  * No one goes back to sleep
  * Ñolofinwë and Anairë emerge from their rooms in what would have been the very early Mingling of the Lights – both of them have the impulse to call it morning now, though there’s no sun and no moon here, not yet – and find Nerdanel alone with a cup of hot chocolate, staring exhaustedly at the table
  * She looks up at them after a long moment
  * “You too?” she asks, hollow
  * It could mean many things, but they all know just by meeting each other’s eyes
  * “And Fëanáro?” Anairë asks
  * “I needed space,” Nerdanel says. “I left when I woke up, and I haven’t seen-”
  * A moment of silent thought, and she sighs and slumps heavily. “He’s not here any longer. I don’t know where he’s gone.”
  * “Off to do something drastic and ill-advised, surely,” Ñolofinwë says. “I need- The two of us need to have a proper talk with each other.”
  * “I’m the only one he really listens to,” Nerdanel reminds him
  * “Maybe not anymore,” Anairë offers
  * Valinor is dark and the Noldor need strong leadership to get them through this and they are all of them grieving and they have dead sons to bury and living children who need their parents right now, but Fëanáro has run off and the three of them have a thorough, if secondhand, account of the kind of damage he can do when consumed by his emotions
  * It’s a bit easier for Ñolofinwë and Anairë. There’s still two of them here
  * “I’m sorry,” Nerdanel tells Makalaurë, and her heart hurts all the worse at the sight of her eldest living son trying to hide his fear and the pain of his brother’s absence to be strong because there will, for a while, be no one else; because she knows a him who is trying to hold his family together on the shores of Lake Mithrim after losses they never could have imagined and a him who stayed with his brother through everything out of fear for what he would do to himself if left unattended, and was proven right. “But I have to go get your father before he causes worse problems. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Listen to your Aunt Anairë.”
  * Tyelkormo screams and screams when she tries to leave, grabs her and tries to keep her in place with his own weight, shrieking about how _you can’t leave Nelyo left you won’t come back-!_
  * This brings Finwë and Indis. It’s obvious they’d not dreamed like that last night, and they three realize that they can’t relate what they know to anyone. They’d not even had to consider telling their children, they don’t deserve to have to bear the weight of it; but if they tell anyone else it will be a conspiracy of silence that will choke the entire family and turn bitter and angry as the youngest generation stews in the frustration that they _know_ there is something being held from them about dead Nelyafinwë and Findekáno
  * Parents are meant to try to keep their children from things. If it stays knowledge held by four bereft parents only, the children can draw kinder conclusions in that silence
  * “Fëanáro’s run off while they were sleeping,” Ñolofinwë tells his father apologetically, trying to give an explanation without explaining
  * Finwë sighs and closes his eyes, this news a new weight to add to the burdens of recent events
  * “Of course he has,” he murmurs. “Try to be gentle with him, please; and return from Mandos as quickly as you can.”
  * Nerdanel and Ñolofinwë haven’t a clue where Fëanáro’s gone, but the Halls of Mandos seems a likely place. They set off



* * *

  * The Halls of Mandos have no evident doors nor gates to pound on, so Fëanáro makes do with the first stretch of wall he’d come across and yells with all his considerable might to Námo to _let him out take me instead-!_
  * Mait- Maedh- _Nelyafinwë_ had bourn enough because of him, he should be allowed the comfort of his mother and of the brothers he doesn’t have to save, and of a city that will rejoice in his return; and Tirion would breathe easier with him gone, surely, there won’t be any troublesome son of Míriel to cause strife and disrupt the House of Finwë, and Nerdanel wouldn’t be forced to bear his presence, and-
  * Námo leaves his Halls and sternly tells him that: _Your son has suffered longer and more greatly than even your mother, and his place is here, and I shall not allow you to disturb him_
  * What Námo means is: _‘Your son has been rescued but is still in much pain, which has only just begun to heal, and it will take much longer than you want it to until he is ready to face the world again’_
  * What Fëanáro hears is: _‘Your mother and your son are dead and it is your fault, and you will never see them again’_
  * ( _You really should just try saying **exactly** what you mean, _Fingon will tell Námo later. It won’t be about this moment, but it could be)
  * Námo quietly arranges things so that Fëanáro’s headlong flight _away_ will bring him to Estë. He speeds Nerdanel and Ñolofinwë’s journey and waits until they arrive
  * _I have sent him onwards,_ he tells them. _I will make your way to Lórien short, as well_
  * He pauses
  * _Your sons are safe within the Halls,_ Námo adds, because he and his siblings had tried not to hurt the dreamers as much as they could, withholding direct memories of deaths and tortures while allowing the simple fact that they occurred to be known; giving indirect glimpses into destruction and the consequences of war to provide an anchor for the associated emotions and context within the full narrative, lingering longer in key events. They’d tried to counter the pain they knew the dream would bring, but there hadn’t been much happiness to work with in the first place and their efforts don’t seem to have done Fëanáro much good. _They will find peace, eventually_
  * Nerdanel hadn’t realized just how much she needed that confirmation about her son until Námo gives it to her. The dream had ended on the knowledge that the forest was next, and right until this moment she also hadn’t realized that she’d been afraid that her son had sent himself back into the Void again
  * “Thank you,” Ñolofinwë says for the both of them, and they continue onwards
  * _“Fix me!”_ Fëanáro is demanding of Estë in the Gardens
  * _I cannot help you,_ Estë tells him
  * What Estë means is: _‘You are not dying of grief, and you are not physically hurt, and if this is the same sickness of fëa that Míriel had I still don’t know how to heal that, so I don’t understand why my husband’s brother sent you here’_
  * What Fëanáro hears is: _‘You are intrinsically and fundamentally broken, unfixable by anyone’_
  * Nerdanel and Ñolofinwë never enter the Gardens of Lórien, because by the time they arrive, Estë has already expelled Fëanáro for being perfectly sound in body but insisting on continuing to disturb the peace
  * He’s sitting in the grass just outside the borders of the Gardens, head in his hands
  * They sit down on either side of him
  * Nerdanel tries to touch minds with her husband, but he has shut himself tightly behind strong walls to hold himself back, because he is the sickness at the heart of his family, his birth has killed his mother and he has driven his sons to death and destruction and ruin, if any of them should have flung themselves into the Void it should have been _him_ and not Nelyafinwë-
  * “There _are_ some things you can’t do, Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë tells him tiredly, trying to offer comfort
  * Another time, Fëanáro would have snapped back at this insult, but he’s trying to keep his poison from spreading, so he stays silent
  * Nerdanel rests her head on his shoulder, and leans against him; but he still does not speak or open his mind




	3. Chapter 2

  * Nerdanel and Ñolofinwë had brought Fëanáro back in admirable time, but Finwë is terrified for his son
  * He has not spoken since he was returned. His mind is shut to all, and he holds himself physically apart from them as well. He is stiff when embraced and is of no comfort to his sons or his wife
  * They’ve had Nelyafinwë and Findekáno’s funeral. Fëanáro had been grim and tense and silent throughout, but his eyes had burned as though he could will the life back into his son
  * For a moment, Finwë had been convinced that it would work, and that Fëanáro would burst alight, pouring out all he had for the sake of his child, and depart to the Halls in utterly spent exhaustion
  * Míriel had gone more gently, but Nelyafinwë’s death has broken Fëanáro, and he does not know how much longer his eldest son can endure
  * Finwë is too afraid to ask his second-eldest son if he knows what his brother had been trying to accomplish in riding off for Mandos
  * He fears the worst when Mahtan enters his office unexpectedly. Nerdanel’s father had stayed past his grandson’s funeral for the sake of his daughter and the sons she still has, stepping up where Fëanáro has not or cannot, and for him to be here and not with them-



* * *

  * “Lady Yavanna said _what,_ ” Mahtan cuts flatly across the subdued talk of Aulë’s Great Forge
  * Everything falls silent
  * Lord Aulë apologizes to him, uncomfortably but sincerely, for his wife’s words. She is mourning the Trees and hurting
  * Mahtan doesn’t blame his Lord for it, and he understands pain and grief, but-
  * _‘If only Nelyafinwë Fëanárion had not run off with the Silmarils,’_ Lady Yavanna had said bitterly over the husks of the Trees
  * That’s his _grandson_
  * Mahtan carries that resentment to Tirion and Maitimo’s funeral
  * He stays in Tirion because his daughter is grieving and her husband has withdrawn into himself in his anguish and his living grandsons need more support than they are getting
  * He stays in Tirion because he is _angry_
  * When it doesn’t abate, he goes to High King Finwë to inform him he’ll be staying for some time. It’s the polite thing to do
  * “You could take them with you back to the Forges,” the High King says. “It- might do them some good, to be away from Tirion-”
  * “I will not return to my Lord’s halls when I am wroth with his wife,” Mahtan cuts him off
  * “Why have you anger for Lady Yavanna?” the High King asks
  * Mahtan tells him



* * *

  * Finwë-
  * Finwë is _furious_
  * He is furious at Morgoth, for the murders of his grandsons and the harm to his family. He is furious at Manwë, who had told all that Melkor was repentant, and allowed him to walk free amongst the Eldar. He is furious that there are Vala who say they are oh-so-wise but who shed tears for the Trees and none for Nelyafinwë and Findekáno. He is furious at _all_ the Valar, who had assured them that they would be safe in Aman and for which promise they had walked away from the only home they had ever known; at the Valar who had made such a fuss over the fact that he has enough love in him for two wives and for the children of them both, the Valar who are doing _nothing-_
  * He rides from Tirion in full state to demand of Manwë what is going to be done about Morgoth. Manwë raises the Pelóri to new heights, smooth and unscalable on the sea-face, and says that they will be safe
  * Finwë does not spit back _‘but you have said that before’_
  * He leaves Taniquetil and returns directly to Tirion-upon-Túna, and stands in the Great Square before his house and palace, and speaks
  * “Why, O people of the Noldor, should we tarry ere long in the lands of the Valar, who cannot keep us nor even their own realm safe from the Enemy? Vengeance calls me hence, and I can dwell not longer where no justice can I do to my grandsons’ slayer! Yet I am not the only wronged of this wrongèd people – have ye not lost your princes whom ye loved to the Enemy, and when long ere we dwelt abroad did we not lose sons and daughters, wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, cousins and more distant kin besides? Lost as well have we the great lights of Tyelperion and Laurelin, but awakened were we by starlight, and see! Above us still they shine, and but their reflected glow in Cuiviénen protected us in the far East from the Enemy in our younger days. So say I that to the East I will return by the stars, and seek the Enemy, and have from him the payments of justice though must I pursue him even unto the ends of Arda-”
  * His speech bears a startling resemblance to the one his son would have given, in this same darkness in this same square, in a world where he had died in place of his grandsons, given that Finwë doesn’t even know such a world existed
  * He says nothing of the coming of Men or raising the Noldor to rulership of all Arda, and not one word of the Silmarils passes his lips, but he rallies the Noldor with words of new lands to the East, and of vengeance and glory, and of true tests of skill
  * No oaths are sworn upon Finwë’s conclusion, and that is all that snaps Fëanáro, listening from his bedroom window, out of the horrified paralysis of hearing his father proclaim the echo of a dream. He sinks, shaking, to the floor



* * *

  * The first time their father speaks in weeks is to forbid them from going East
  * The sons of Fëanáro are in conference. They’re meeting in Nelyafinwë’s room. It seems right
  * Tyelkormo almost can’t stand to be here. He has Huan, which is helping, but he is certain he will never recover from what he came upon in the woods. He jolts awake multiple times every sleep cycle from nightmares of Nelyo trying to speak to him with half his face gone and his viscera falling out, or coming across him in his last moments and watching him die, or being there while Morgoth killed him. In his waking hours he’s often seized with the fear that anyone he cares about but can’t see _right this instant_ have been murdered just as horribly, and his family is far too large for him to keep eyes on all of them at once
  * He holds tighter to Huan’s fur and tries to convince himself that his mother and father are not lying dead elsewhere in the house. He can’t keep giving to the fear and seeking people out. He _can’t-_
  * The others are arguing, but they do all agree with each other, so it’s more like very aggressive complaining. They’re going to go East with their grandfather and father and cousins and all the rest of the Noldor, and avenge Nelyo, and get themselves lands and glory in the process
  * Tyelkormo is pretty sure that if he opens his mouth he’s going to start screaming again. None of his brothers ever saw Nelyo’s body, Grandfather Finwë hadn’t let them, and he’s happy they don’t have to know what had been done to him but it means they don’t _understand_
  * He’s a hunter, skilled enough and dedicated enough to be of Oromë’s host. He knows how to kill cleanly, and what to do if you make a mistake and cause undue suffering. You’re not supposed to cause harm outside the actual death
  * Morgoth had been, had been _torturing_ Nelyo, had wanted him to die slowly and in pain-
  * Huan leans into him. He’s a very good dog. Who is also a Maia and can kind of read his thoughts, but. Good Dog
  * Tyelkormo agrees with his brothers that Morgoth needs to pay for what he did to Nelyo. He’s just terrified of what will happen to them if _they’re_ the ones to try extracting that payment
  * But his brothers would call him craven if he said anything, and scorn him, and so would their father. None of them would understand
  * So he stays silent, and doesn’t object when Makalaurë finally leaves to formally declare their intent to travel East to their grandfather, no matter what their father might have to say on the matter



* * *

  * Fëanáro’s talking again, at least, even if it’s only a few clipped sentences for every twenty hours or so. It’s incredibly unlike him, but it’s better
  * Ñolofinwë is trying to see the bright side of the Noldor starting to pack up for a mass migration back East, because otherwise he is going to be thinking about how all of his children are going to die
  * Finwë would go across the sea even if no one went with him, and all the Noldor know it. They love him, and they’re scared and worked up, so they’re all going
  * Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë weren’t going to let their father go off to die alone regardless of who else went, and Nerdanel and Anairë refuse to stay behind this time
  * Unfortunately, the third generation is just as attached to their fathers as the second. None of the children will consent to stay behind, and none of them are young enough for their parents to override them. Not that Fëanáro hadn’t tried
  * Even Arafinwë is determined to go. His children are still far more enthusiastic about it than him, but the youngest son of Finwë is much more willing to follow his father than he would have been his eldest brother



* * *

  * “I’ll be back soon,” Mahtan tells his daughter. Fëanáro has started speaking again, and his grandsons have harnessed their hurt to drive them across the sea, so he feels they’ll be all right without him for a little while
  * “I wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye, atto,” Nerdanel says fiercely
  * “I wasn’t worried about that,” he assures her, and leaves Tirion to return to his Lord’s halls
  * He’s still upset about what Lady Yavanna said, but it’s better, now that things are being done
  * It’s easy to say that the Noldor live in Tirion, and the Vanyar live in Valmar, and the Teleri live in Alqualondë, and love and respect their High Kings
  * But _‘High King’_ is a pointless term if there are no lords under him. There are the Princes and Princesses, of course, but they tend to cluster in the great cities. Fëanáro was really the exception, which is how he came to meet Nerdanel daughter and only child of Mahtan Urundil of the Aulenduri in the first place
  * For anyone who cares to bother, Mahtan is Lord of Kemensinqina. Not many people do, himself included
  * Kemensinqina is a fine little city, by his own estimation. It is not so grand as Tirion, but he never wished nor wanted it to be. He’s a smith, and he reveres and loves his lord Aulë, and here stone buildings have metal roofs that sing in the rain and crystal windows that had cast rainbows under Treelight and roads paved with sparkling green granite that still shine and glimmer in the everlasting starlight
  * It’s a good place, and he begrudges it to no one
  * _So you are going, then,_ Lord Aulë says solemnly after they exchange their greetings
  * “I am not so afeared of our safety here as many others are, my Lord,” Mahtan says politely. “But Maitimo is my grandson, and Nerdanel and all her children will be departing. I will be making no grand speeches – I am sure there are Noldor who will remain with you.”
  * _I will miss you, Mahtan. Go with my blessing_
  * “Thank you, Lord, for all you have done for me.”
  * More people elect to follow him to the East than he expected. It makes sense, he supposes. The Noldor are going to settle as well as to war, and will be needing all kinds of smiths and artisans
  * Still, he is glad he is not leaving Kemensinqina as emptied as Tirion will be. He tells those who will be remaining to heed Lord Aulë while he is away, and leaves orders that, should Maitimo be returned from the Halls while he is abroad, his grandson shall be given Lordship of the city
  * Mahtan has no wife to leave his city to. He has never married, nor wished to. Nerdanel is by technicality the daughter of his sister, who died shortly after her birth and shortly before the Eldar were set to cross the sea. His sister had been entranced by the water, enough so that she drowned, and Mahtan thinks it likely that her fëa remains on the seashore rather than going to reside in Mandos. He has no idea who his parents are, nor who his sister had lain with to get with child, so Nerdanel and his grandsons are the only heirs he has
  * Nerdanel surprises him by how surprised she is when he returns to Tirion with a good bit of Kemensinqina in his train, packed and ready to go East
  * “I wasn’t going to let you go alone, selyë,” Mahtan explains, confused that he even has to say anything. “You may have been born in Beleriand, but you have never truly lived in the East; whereas I and many with me were born at Cuiviénen.”
  * “Oh, _atto,_ ” his daughter despairs, and he decides it must be the worry for the living that lingers after losing a loved one to the dark



* * *

  * Fëanáro would leverage all his authority to make his sons swear not to go to Beleriand with them, but he doesn’t trust himself with his words
  * It’s their sons’ insistence on going that finally starts bringing him and Nerdanel back together. They’re the only ones who know how terrible things can become
  * (All right _fine_ Ñolofinwë and Anairë know as well, but he’s not speaking with his- with Ñolofinwë. Anyway, they’re not _his_ sons)
  * “They are not oathbound,” is one of the most optimistic things his wife can come up with. “And we know they will be- skilled, at war.”
  * “But do we _want_ them to be?” Fëanáro asks bitterly
  * “And would you let them come to harm if you could at all prevent it?” Nerdanel challenges him. “They are coming despite what we would wish, so it is better that they be skilled than not. Will you learn from what you have been told, Fëanáro Curufinwë, and guide them so that their deeds may be in the service of justice and good, and not for covetousness and the Enemy? So that if they fall, none will have words to say against them?”
  * “I do not know if I am capable of it,” he says, because she is the only person he has ever been able to express his self-doubts to
  * “Well you have not been going on about those accursèd rocks, so already you are doing better than you could be,” she retorts testily
  * Fëanáro _does_ still want his Silmarils back, is the thing
  * Even when he knows – and _how_ he knows! – what he could cause, getting them back
  * He still wants them
  * They are power and beauty and hallowed and prophesied over, and they are _his_
  * Maybe he no longer places their worth above that of the lives of his family, but
  * They’re a very close second
  * Too close for him not be guilty for it, and yet still a part of him is indignant over that guilt
  * This wanting is how he knows he is poison and that if he is not ever so careful he will infect everyone he cares for with it, and why he will not open his mind again to anyone
  * He can feel his wife pushing at him through their marriage bond again, prodding to be let in
  * Fëanáro does the mental equivalent of adding a very large and obvious bar across a fortress gate and asks: “Why do you even want to know?”
  * “Because we are _married,_ ” Nerdanel hisses at him, properly angry at last. “Because _Maedhros,_ because we have living sons to save, because all those things we have seen you do have not happened and yet I am still angry at you for them, and I want to believe that you will choose a better path now that you have seen one that ends in such disaster!”
  * “And what good can I do?”
  * “What _good?_ ” she demands, voice rising. He knows people say his wife tempers him, cools him, and certainly Nerdanel is less explosive than he is; but sometimes the only way to halt a fire is to out-burn it, and she has never disappointed. “ _‘What good,’_ you have to ask? Your sons _need you,_ Fëanáro! Share your grief with them! Your _father_ needs you, to ease his fear that you will die over the matter of your child as your mother did! Your _people_ need you, as their Crown Prince, to help lead and guide them! Always were _you_ the one at the forefront of the disquiet about remaining in Valinor, not your father! _You_ are the one who was first to forge swords for war! Bend your brilliance and your knowledge to the task of bringing the Noldor whole and without division to Beleriand, and then to their safety in those lands! _Use_ your gifts and _think-_ ”



* * *

  * Finwë is surprised when his eldest son comes to see him
  * “Fëanáro-” he starts to say, relieved to see him
  * “Earlier,” Fëanáro interrupts him. “My wife said you are afraid I will die like Mother did, because of Nelyafinwë.”
  * This is more like the son he knows, but still, the fear lingers
  * “Yes,” he admits freely
  * “I will not,” Fëanáro declares, with more conviction and life than Finwë has seen from him in weeks
  * But then, his shoulders slump, and his next words are softer
  * “It is only- Nelyo did not _deserve_ -”
  * Finwë pulls him into an embrace
  * “No one ever deserves the touch of Morgoth,” he tries to comfort his son. “I am sorry you have seen it. Never did I want this for you.”
  * “If _anyone_ was going to die for the Silmarils it should have been _me,_ and only me!” his son continues, voice rising again, sharp with familiar anger. “Nelyafinwë should be _here,_ and not me! I went to Námo, and he-!”
  * “Yes?” Finwë prompts, with some dread. His fear for his son has not been entirely unfounded, after all, though he does believe Fëanáro when he says he will not die of it now
  * “He said that Nelyafinwë is worse hurt than Mother.”
  * The words strike deep at the heart of Finwë, and he weeps both for and with his son
  * “So we will not see him again outside the Halls,” Finwë says eventually, tears used up but his sorrow unabated
  * “ _I_ did that, Father!” Fëanáro is still weeping, but it is an angry thing that Finwë has not heard since his son was a small child. “I _did that;_ I killed my _son!_ ”
  * This is the way he used to cry for Míriel. Finwë is no more able to find the words to make his son believe _‘yes, you made the Silmarils, and yes, Nelyafinwë is dead because of their existence, but that does not mean you have caused his death’_ any more than he has ever been able for _‘yes, your mother gave birth to you, and yes, that sent her to the Halls, but no, that does not mean you are at fault for it’_
  * He holds Fëanáro tightly and hopes that it helps



* * *

  * Makalaurë dreads answering their father’s summons
  * He’s the oldest, now. He has to be his brothers’ guide, like Nelyo was; and to speak for them, like Nelyo did
  * Tyelko may be the most consistently vexing son to their father, and Curvo the one who can disagree with him on points of intellect and craft and be listened to if not agreed with, but Nelyo was the one who could defy him
  * He hadn’t done it much, though it had increased bit by bit as the tensions in Tirion got worse, and most of the time they had been relatively small defiances, but-
  * Tyelko’s favorite cousin is Írissë, and if their father had ever ordered him to stop hunting with her, he would have ignored it, but wouldn’t have said anything about it
  * Nelyo’s favorite cousin is – was – Findekáno. Father had once tried to forbid them from being friends
  * The next week, Findekáno had been at breakfast with the rest of them, having obviously slept over in Nelyo’s room, and Nelyo had frostily pretended that he didn’t understand why their father was furious with him
  * It was the biggest stand Nelyo had ever made against their father, but also the only time Makalaurë could remember their father truly backing down on something to do with Ñolofinwë
  * And Makalaurë has to _be_ him, now
  * He is his brothers’ voice, and he’d brought their decision to Grandfather Finwë over Father’s head, and now they’ve all been summoned
  * Makalaurë isn’t brave like Nelyo was – Nelyo who could be friends with Findekáno and make their father have to live with it; Nelyo who could sweet-talk people their father had strife with and cause things to blow over even though Father had every intention on continuing in enmity; Nelyo who had been perceptive enough to see Morgoth for what he still was and realize how badly he wanted the Silmarils and had stolen them and ridden away and baited the Terror In the Dark into revealing himself at the cost of his own life-
  * They are all gathered as ordered
  * “If you are going to be coming, you are going to be useful,” Father says brusquely. He’s still mad. “Pityafinwë, Telufinwë, you will assist your mother however she sees fit.”
  * Ambarussat splits up to go find her
  * “Curufinwë, see that Mahtan and his people are supplied with everything they need, and that our own smiths are working with them.”
  * Curvo responds as quickly to Father’s orders as he’s always done, not able to hide the relief of something familiar returning
  * “Morifinwë, I require a full accounting of our people, and the skills and resources they will be bringing.”
  * Moryo bows out
  * “Turkafinwë-” Makalaurë hopes his brother has not noticeably reacted to Father’s uncomfortable moment’s pause. “Find out if Oromë’s Hunt has any useful information about what creatures and plants we will be encountering.”
  * Tyelkormo edges out. He’s not been well, ever since he’d found Nelyo. Makalaurë doesn’t know how to help him. Nelyo would have
  * He’s alone with his father
  * Who isn’t saying anything
  * He’s eldest now
  * He has to be brave, like Nelyo
  * He has to be brave, _for_ Nelyo
  * “You shouldn’t be mad at him,” he forces himself to say
  * His father raises an eyebrow
  * “At Nelyafinwë,” Makalaurë braces himself and plows on. “I know he stole the Silmarils but-”
  * “You think I’m _mad_ at Nelyafinwë?” Fëanáro asks, voice dark
  * “I saw how you were looking at- him. At the funeral.”
  * Father had been so furious. The intensity of the fire in his eyes had made Makalaurë’s stomach weak
  * “And you won’t talk about him, and you and Mother are fighting again-”
  * “Do your _brothers_ think I’m mad at Nelyafinwë?”
  * Makalaurë shifts uncomfortably
  * “I think Tyelko does,” he admits. “Or that you’re mad at _him,_ because he wasn’t there, or because Nelyo wasn’t with him. Or all three.”
  * His father takes a deep breath and closes his eyes like he has a headache
  * “I am not mad at Turkafinwë,” he says in a measured and even voice that sounds like he doesn’t mean it. “And I am not mad at Nelyafinwë. They’ve done-”
  * His voice catches, hitches, drops lower and goes thin with grief
  * “He was trying to save us,” Father says, and now it sounds like he means it. “If Turkafinwë had been there, then we would just have lost him, too.”
  * “You should- tell him,” Makalaurë says lamely, not sure of what else to do
  * “I will,” Father says, and then is back to his usual self. It really is reassuring. He’d rather have Nelyo, but if his father is acting like himself again, then it’s easier to... put it out of mind. Nelyo could just be in another room. Nothing has to have happened to him. He just isn’t right here, right now. “Kánafinwë – go help your uncle.”



* * *

  * “He... didn’t elaborate?” Makalaurë is telling him, eyes wide. “But I don’t know who else- Arafinwë hasn’t- Findaráto’s been more than- that’s _really_ what Father said, I promise.”
  * Ñolofinwë sends him off to sing for Írissë and stands there, staring at the wall, reeling inside
  * _‘Uncle’_. From _Fëanáro-_
  * They haven’t had that talk yet, he and his brother
  * “So,” Ñolofinwë opens their conversation with, after, once he finds him, they end up staring at each other in silence for far too long. “I am an uncle to Kánafinwë, am I, brother?”
  * Fëanáro gave more than he would have ever expected, saying _‘uncle’_ at all. Their father has managed to extract an incredibly grudging _‘half-uncle’_ from Fëanáro before, so Ñolofinwë can meet him halfway on his concessions and call his brother’s second-eldest by his father-name
  * Their sons’ names have been a long feud between them. Fëanáro had started it, as was usual for these things, when he’d named Nelyafinwë
  * At the time, it hadn’t bothered Ñolofinwë _too_ much – he wasn’t really the third Finwë, but he was the third in the senior line of the House of Finwë, so it had seemed relatively innocuous
  * But then Fëanáro had had a second son and named him _‘commanding Finwë’_
  * _That,_ Ñolofinwë had felt, was _far_ too much. He’d turned Fëanáro’s own vaunted linguistic talents and his naming choices back on him when his own first son was born, the third grandchild of Finwë. Findekáno, _‘skilled commander’_ , on one level a simple mirror and even a potential homage to the elder prince Kánafinwë, but reaching deep into the past before the linguistic change from what the Quendi had spoken at Cuiviénen into Quenya, the same source as his brother’s stubborn insistence on the old-fashioned _‘th’_ instead of everyone else’s _‘s’_
  * _‘Fin’_ might mean only _‘hair’_ now, and Quenya had found less-ambiguous ways to talk of intellect and mastery of craft, but no matter what puns could be made of homophonic coincidence, Finwë had been named for his skill, not for his hair
  * _‘Finde’_ might have been a positively archaic compounding to use in his son’s name, but Ñolofinwë had derived a deep satisfaction from Fëanáro’s poorly-concealed anger at being thoroughly outplayed. _He_ certainly couldn’t complain about linguistic antiquity, could a man who still most of the time insisted on being _‘Therindion’_
  * It had only escalated from there, passing on through _‘strong’_ Turkafinwë and _‘ruling’_ Turukáno on down to _‘high’_ Arakáno and _‘last’_ Telufinwë
  * Arafinwë had never overtly gotten in on the naming feud, but he’d quietly followed Ñolofinwë’s lead on never using the father-names of Fëanáro’s sons for anyone except Nelyafinwë. He’d already been _‘Nelyafinwë’_ to everyone in the family by then, it would have been too obviously a snub to have switched the name he called his eldest nephew. Ñolofinwë far prefers subtlety
  * Besides, _‘Maitimo’_ had always seemed... intensely personal to Nerdanel. Even Fëanáro has never called his son that, so far as he knows
  * Makalaurë could be Kánafinwë, this time, if Fëanáro had said _‘uncle’_ and meant Ñolofinwë
  * “The old stories say song is useful against darkness,” Fëanáro answers
  * That’s... as close as his brother is going to get to outright asking if Írissë is doing better
  * “Anairë took over supply and inventory for the journey,” Ñolofinwë replies, just as obtusely. Was it _really_ such an imposition on his brother for him to show explicit concern for the rest of them?
  * .. _.He’s_ better than this, even if his brother isn’t
  * “Thank you for sending Kánafinwë,” he adds
  * They fall into silence
  * **_Say_** _something,_ Ñolofinwë thinks, frustrated. Fëanáro has always been the one to start things, and he finds himself singularly unable to begin on his own
  * “Nelyafinwë will not be returning,” his brother says abruptly, which actually is a non-sequitur
  * At his look, Fëanáro adds: “ _‘The vital importance of talking about your feelings’_.”
  * Ñolofinwë _supposes_ this counts as his brother making an effort to do better. He’s going to give him the benefit of the doubt
  * “Oh?” he prompts, because he doesn’t actually know what Fëanáro is trying to say
  * “Námo said,” he elaborated. “When I- he is worse hurt than my mother.”
  * _Oh_
  * “I believe Findekáno is well enough, considering,” his brother offers. “I did not ask, but- he had... less time. With it all.”
  * Ñolofinwë doesn’t think it will make that much of a difference. There’s a new ache in his heart, now, because he can’t think it likely that the Findekáno of their shared dream would leave Mandos if Nelyafinwë would not
  * His son is safe and will be well, but he will not see him again in life
  * “I’m sorry,” Ñolofinwë says, and because _he_ actually has some emotional competence, asks: “How are Nerdanel and the boys taking it?”
  * His brother’s expression says everything
  * “Go _tell them,_ Fëanáro,” he orders. “They deserve to know. We’ll talk later. We need to, about- what didn’t happen. What hasn’t happened. Get your thoughts together, and we’ll make time before we leave for Beleriand.”




	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday! So in fine Tolkien tradition, I give you a present.

  * These Halls are full of Sindar and Green-Elves, scattered throughout with Avari who were brave enough or intrigued enough by hearing the Call of Mandos upon their death to follow an inexplicable pull into the unknown west
  * It’s novel, but it also makes Fingon uncomfortable
  * He doesn’t _want_ his people to also be in Beleriand and dying horribly because of Morgoth-
  * But there are all these Nandori elves here, whose ancestors turned away on the Great Journey for love of Beleriand and Eriador, or for fear of what else they might encounter in the dark far from Cuiviénen, and he can’t help but feel that they’ve been abandoned by his own people
  * When the Noldor had agitated to leave for the East, not a one of them had done it to aid their left-behind cousins who had been living in the shadow of Morgoth for long years of the Trees. It was for revenge and for glory and for new lands and lordships of their own
  * How could they have _done_ that? How could they have been so uncaring? Prideful had the Noldor been named, and they had not disproven it
  * Fingon feels like maybe he understands how Thingol had felt about them all turning up suddenly and declaring themselves Lords and Kings by mere virtue of having arrived, and that’s also uncomfortable
  * His befuddled wanderings and the mild cloud of discomfort he knows he’s been exuding must make him a novelty to the Sindar, as well, because it doesn’t take very long, as these things are reckoned in the Halls, for one of them approach him
  * _Are you kin of Celebrían, Mallendor?_ he’s asked
  * _What?_ Fingon stalls out, trying to piece together how some First Age Sinda knows Elrond’s wife when Artanis doesn’t even know Celeborn exists yet, to say nothing of having married him and had a daughter
  * _Oh,_ the Sinda says, sounding obscurely disappointed. _You speak our language, so it cannot be. Apologies_
  * _Who did you mistake me for?_ Fingon asks
  * The other shrugs. _I don’t know, in truth,_ he answers. _But you have the look of the Silver Lady about you, and you have been seen in the company of the Lord of these Halls as she is, sometimes. Are you one of his Maiar?_
  * **_No?_** Fingon says, still completely lost
  * _Are you **sure?**_ the Sinda asks doubtfully
  * _Why would you-?_ Fingon trails off helplessly
  * _.._ the Sinda also seems at a loss for words. He frowns a little, and tilts his head, searching for the right way to explain. _You have the same light in you, as the Lady does, though it is... louder? And you have-_
  * He runs his hands down his hair. It’s an extremely unremarkable light brown. Fingon desperately wants to get some copper or bronze in it to give the color some depth-
  * _Oh,_ he says, understanding suddenly
  * The Sinda called him _‘Golden Lord’_ for the wire and thread and beads he keeps in his hair. The Sindar don’t go in for that sort of decoration. Might he think it’s a natural part of him? That _would_ be a very Maia thing to do, having gold growing in your hair-
  * _Wait,_ Fingon says, as he puts together _‘golden’_ and _‘hair’_ and _‘silver’_ and _‘Noldor’_ and _‘Sindar’_. _Were you talking about **Míriel?**_
  * It takes a rather a lot of back-and-forth, but there’s really only one non-Nandori, non-Avari female-fëa with silver hair going about in heavily-embroidered Noldoran brocade with the light of the Trees about her who could possibly be in the Halls and in the company of Námo
  * In the end, Fingon has to go off in Quenya for his new Sinda acquaintance and the group of interested eavesdroppers who’ve gathered since they realized “Mallendor” is open for conversation for them to be really convinced about his Míriel-is-Celebrían theory
  * _We thought it was the language of the gods!_ one of their late-come companions exclaims
  * _I don’t see why you’re so surprised,_ someone else scoffs. _You couldn’t understand us when we met. Not all Quendi speak the **same** language_
  * Oh, apparently some of his new friends are Green-Elves
  * _As it happens, I am related to your Silver Lady,_ Fingon tells them. _Míriel Serindë is the wife of my grandfather, though she is not the wife who is my grandmother_
  * They really need words for this sort of thing. Explaining his family is always tedious, but he refuses to use Fëanor’s _‘half-’_ Fëanor is his uncle, and Fingolfin is his father, and they are brothers, and nothing Fëanor can say or do will change that. There’s no _‘half-’_ about any of them
  * _She is also,_ Fingon adds, when the Sindar seem about as convinced that this counts as the Míriel partisans who form the core of Fëanor’s faction. _The grandmother of my intended_
  * That’s probably not the _best_ way to describe Maedhros, since it implies that they’re engaged and Maedhros has refused to be so seven times, but Fingon does fully intend to both keep asking and to never ask anyone else; and even if Maedhros never agrees to marry him, he’d still be _deeply_ offended if anyone else ever presumed to propose to him, so it all works out in the end
  * Míriel being Maedhros’s grandmother does seem to convince the Sindar of his claim
  * And then someone backtracks the shared paternal bloodline
  * _Your people... hold to kin so close?_ he’s asked uncomfortably
  * _I don’t think it’s ever come up before,_ Fingon says, ready to be defiant. _But if I let that sort of thing stop me I’d also be decrying my own existence as a blasphemy against Eru_
  * The Green-Elf laughs. _Not so different after all, Sinda and Noldo! And you call yourselves the Wise Ones, who would scorn your second-mothers and your siblings by them! What greater affront to the world and the soul could there be, to decry love where it arises true!_
  * Fingon decides that Green-Elves are his new favorite Kindred of the Eldar, and also that someone really needs to introduce Finwë and Fëanor to them
  * _‘Second-mothers’_. He likes that. He’ll have to tell Maedhros



* * *

  * Maedhros has been noticed by others in the Halls as well
  * On the edges of gathering rooms and around corners, he can hear them
  * _Andûrnor_ , they call him in whispers in Sindarin
  * And even quieter, in the greater, deeper darknesses of corridors of the Halls so deep a chill lays upon them: _Uratbúrzgâsh_
  * He follows the hushed echoes of Black Speech further in and further down
  * There are elves here, in the gloom. They’re hiding from him, but he knows he isn’t alone here in the same way he knew he was never truly alone in Angband. There’s a thin current, beneath every thought and every sensation, of eyes, and remembered pain
  * Maedhros stops in what feels like would be a gathering room in the higher Halls, but here feels more like the central chamber of a dungeon, and greets his watchers
  * It’s not a pleasant thing- oh, all Black Speech grates against the Song, but beyond that, it isn’t a language made with any kindness or joy or even neutrality in mind. The closest thing to _‘hello’_ he can express is best translated as _‘I’ve found you’_
  * But mere words don’t capture it. There’s no way for it _not_ to sound menacing, and if he doesn’t maintain a strictly neutral tone, the inflection of emotion will imply sadistic anticipation of what he’ll do now that he’s found them
  * _‘Uratbúrzgâsh’_. Literally it means the same as _‘Andûrnor’_ , no matter the language he’s being called _‘great Dark fire’_ – but in Black Speech _‘fire’_ never warms, it only burns; and _‘great’_ can never be benevolent, only cruel; and _‘Dark’_ -
  * It’s Black Speech, where all words carry the worst connotations, and already the languages of the Quendi differentiate between simple darkness and the malignant Shadow. _‘Dark’_ in Black Speech can only be understood by those who have suffered the direct attentions of true evil
  * _‘Búrz’_ , Maedhros thinks, might be a word strong enough to describe the Everlasting Darkness
  * The souls of the Eldar who dwell here can see the fifty years of Morgoth and his uncountable time in the Void upon him. They’ve been whispering about him in fear and dread, and here he is, trying to talk to them in Black Speech that won’t let him sound anything but terrifying
  * He hopes he isn’t making a mistake
  * One of his watchers, after a long while of waiting as the silence is slowly steeped in terror, finally creeps out of the darkness, close enough to see
  * _Uratumûl_
  * He is being deferred to as a broken thrall would to Morgoth, his revealed watcher trembling at his feet, head down, voice quiet, calling him by the Enemy’s own title
  * No one else in Black Speech is called _‘Lord’_. Even Sauron only aspired to _‘Master’_ in the language he invented
  * Maedhros has no body for the emotion to have a root in, but he is viscerally revolted all the same
  * _Be you Snaga-hai?_ he asks, hating that he has to pretend to cold disinterest to keep the question from sounding any worse, but hating more that the only way to ask if this elf before him is a Sinda, the only way to know if they share a better language to converse in, is to say _‘slave-folk’_
  * _Yes, Uratumûl,_ the fëa before him whispers
  * _Then rise or let me sink to you,_ Maedhros answers in relieved Sindarin. _But speak no more of lords nor masters and call me ‘friend’, for I claim no dominion over you_
  * _‘Durbatumûk’_ , he uses for _‘dominion over you’_ , to reinforce the point. It’s the last bit of Black Speech he intends on letting pass his lips for some time
  * The Sinda’s head jerks up in shock to look at him, and he can see her clearly for the first time. He sees the surge of terror in her eyes a moment later, painfully familiar from his own time at Lake Mithrim, when his fear was so close to him still and he expected reprisal for near anything he did. In Angband, looking someone more powerful in the eye would have been a grave mistake
  * He falls to his knees on the ground with her, close but careful not to touch without being invited
  * _Peace, friend,_ Maedhros tries to reassure her; and them, the others still hiding and watching, waiting for the trap. _No evil is free to roam in these Halls. You are safe, and I wish you no harm_
  * She’s stopped looking him in the eyes and her hands are shaking, but she’s not trying to debase herself any further before him either. That’s encouraging
  * _You have great Darkness and fell fire about you, to chose to speak in the tongue of my people,_ she says
  * _I have been through more Darkness than most,_ Maedhros tells her. _The fire I cannot help, though I wish to burn only evil with it_
  * _Fair words,_ she says, restrained suspicion clear
  * _Sairon’s a fucking liar, certainly,_ Maedhros finds himself saying suddenly, seized by some perverse commiseration for whatever she’s been through. _But he’d cut his own tongue out before he’d make the barest pretense of friendliness to someone with no power to offer him_
  * It shocks a harsh laugh out of her, brightening her eyes in a sharp way Maedhros has seen before in mirrors
  * _Who are you then, if not him, nor some new guise of the Dark Lord?_ she challenges
  * _Maedhros son of Fëanor, of the Eledhrim who crossed the Western Sea to abide in the lands of the gods, who has long suffered the poor hospitality of the Lord of Angband,_ he answers. _Might I have your name?_
  * She hesitates, but it’s not from caution this time
  * _I am not who I was,_ she answers him. _The name my mother gave me belongs to another time; and I **refuse** the name I was given in the service of the Shadow_
  * _Then I will call you Thaladis,_ Maedhros tells her. _For you have shown courage unmatched for facing me in spite of your fear_



* * *

  * Mother is crying when she tells them, which makes it worse
  * All of them but Ambarussat have discovered their crafts: Carnistir is a draftsman with Mother’s gift for stonework if not for sculpture, Makalaurë is famously a bard, Curufinwë had seemed destined to be eternally forge-bound until the not-so-long-ago when he’d met and married Menelissë and proved to be just as intensely focused on child-rearing as guiding metal and minerals into new shapes. Tyelperinquar is either going to be ferociously well-adjusted or a complete mess when he grows up
  * Nelyo-who-is-never-coming back had been a peacemaker first and a coppersmith, like Grandfather Mahtan, second
  * But Tyelkormo, with his silver hair and his long absences and tendency to disappear that makes his father sharp with worry-
  * Tyelko hunts, and he won’t stop
  * But the only thing he’s happy to stay indoors for is fabric arts
  * He weaves. He embroiders. He’s not Tyelkormo Turkafinwë Therindo, he hasn’t dedicated himself to it and Vairë the way he has to hunting and Oromë-
  * But he _loves_ it
  * He makes all his own hunting gear, and has sunk virtue and art into every stitch. His seams never come undone; his buckles never loosen. His boots make no noise and his cloak renders him invisible to all but Valar and any Maiar who are really looking. His clothes never catch on branches or thorns, and the not-patterns he weaves into them blend perfectly into his surroundings
  * And now he is Tyelkormo with his silver hair and his tendency to disappear and his cloth and he’s the one who found Nelyo-who-is-never-coming-back and no one will ever, _ever_ look at him and not think of Míriel Therindë again
  * His father will only ever look at him and hurt. His grandfather, too
  * If he hadn’t already been committed to going East, Tyelkormo would take Huan and sink into Oromë’s Hunt until the Noldor were all gone
  * (Maybe then, he’d be able to string up a standing-loom and thread embroidery floss on a needle and make the kinds of things too nice to wear into the wilderness, and be able to enjoy it)



* * *

  * When her parents tell them that Nelyafinwë is never going to leave the Halls, Írissë feels like she’s suddenly snapped back into reality
  * Of _course_ he’s not, what happened to him and Findekáno was-
  * They’re not saying it, but she thinks her mother and father think Findekáno isn’t likely to come back, either
  * It’s not just that he was murdered, as well
  * It’s Nelyafinwë
  * She knows about being friends with cousins. She’s friends with Tyelkormo. Makalaurë is sometimes-friends with Findaráto, who’s friendly with just about everybody but actually friends with Turukáno and closer than most with Findekáno, because Findekáno had in turn been friends with Aikanáro and Angaráto, Findaráto’s younger brothers
  * Findekáno was not _friends_ with Nelyafinwë
  * Írissë doesn’t think anyone else ever noticed. She’s not sure _they_ ever noticed
  * But she’s seen Curufinwë meet and marry Menelissë, and Turukáno Elenwë, and Angaráto Eldalöté, and has been sitting through Findaráto and Amarië’s honestly excessively long courtship along with everyone else
  * And Findekáno and Nelyafinwë didn’t remind her of anyone so much as Findaráto and Amarië
  * Sure, Findaráto had only met her once they were both full-grown, and Amarië’s family isn’t even noble and it was only a long friendship between their and Amarië’s own grandmother, former chambermaid-turned-lady’s maid to Indis, sister of Ingwë, Princess of the Vanyar and the Elves, to-be second wife of Finwë and High Queen of the Noldor, that had meant they ever met at all
  * But strictly by their fathers’ relationship, Findekáno and Nelyafinwë should never have been friendly at all
  * Findaráto has always been overly-careful about the difference in status between him and Amarië, otherwise they’d be _married already_
  * Nelyafinwë had always been particularly careful of the familial situation he and Findekáno shared, otherwise they might have _kissed at all ever_
  * Írissë had seen it, and said nothing, because scandals never really end when you’re immortal and the House of Finwë has already had enough trouble between Grandfather and Grandmother and Míriel without starting up something about if cousins who only had one mutual grandparent counted as kin too close or not if the two of them weren’t certain about what they were doing, or what they wanted
  * Now they’re dead, and Írissë saw it, and Nelyafinwë isn’t coming back and Findekáno probably isn’t either, and it’s terrible and the world finally makes sense and Írissë can breathe and think again
  * She hopes they’re happy together, in the Halls; and that Lord Námo doesn’t give them a hard time whenever they do finally manage to start kissing, and that no one else bothers them about it either



* * *

  * In any other situation, a wedding would be unthinkable. Even in the world-that-isn’t, this marriage didn’t happen
  * But in that world Finwë was dead and Indis was staying in Aman, and Elenwë was the only Vanya going East and Amarië’s family didn’t know hers at all
  * Two-thirds of the House of Finwë are in official mourning, and the last third is in mourning-by-proxy because no matter how many wedges Fëanáro has tried to put into this family and her own husband has helped pound in, the many grandchildren of Finwë have their own opinions about who they get to care about
  * Findaráto and Amarië are finally getting married
  * They’re making the best of it, deliberately harkening back to Cuiviénen and simpler times since they have nothing but starlight in the sky and everyone is too busy finishing the preparations to finally depart East to do anything in grand royal style
  * It’s just all of them and Amarië’s family on the grounds of Arafinwë’s estate, witnessing Arafinwë and Amarië’s mother give the blessings and their gifts around the couple’s changing of rings, and a modest picnic-feast afterwards
  * Anairë’s happy for them, and is glad they’ve gotten this, and that the various wives and sisters of the House of Finwë will not be staying behind, in this world
  * But still she wishes-
  * Ñolofinwë takes her hand, and they touch minds, and Anairë shares their dream-knowledge of seven refusals distributed amongst six proposals
  * If Fingon and Maedhros had married, would they be here to know of it, in a world where it hadn’t happened and never would?
  * _We’ll see Írissë and Arakáno wed if we’re lucky,_ her husband offers his thoughts. _Itarillë, too; and Makalaurë and Carnistir and Artanis, if they invite us and we’re not all too spread out to make it_
  * Turukáno has been happily married for years, and Anairë will count it a joy if Írissë ever finds a spouse or Arakáno lives long enough to fall in love-
  * But she wants a world where this family can gather together peacefully under the stars and see her eldest marry the man he has faced all the Darkness of Arda Marred for, and rejoice in their love with her
  * This kind of melancholy was why you didn’t have weddings while in mourning
  * Anairë tries to will away the heaviness of unshed tears and smile genuinely at Eärwen, who is exactly as happy as she should be at her eldest son’s wedding



* * *

  * There’s a lull period just after the wedding. New spouses are given time to retire from the world, and similar consideration is given to their families. Once it’s over and the royal family is fully back, it will be time to cross the sea
  * So Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro have come to their time to talk
  * Fëanáro has no idea what Ñolofinwë wants from him. _‘We need to talk’_ is far too vague a statement to set expectations by
  * He’d been ordered to _‘organize his thoughts’_. On principle he wants to refuse, but worse-
  * He doesn’t _know_ what his thoughts are, beyond that he hates the future-past they were shown; but that’s only a reasonable reaction. That’s not what’s expected of him. He is Fëanáro Curufinwë Therindion, a genius and a scholar who can lecture and debate with the barest prompting and no time to prepare and expect to win every time
  * He still has nothing more when Ñolofinwë seeks him out again. Indis’s eldest son sits, infuriatingly serene of posture and expression, and waits
  * How he _hates_ him!
  * Ñolofinwë who is Indis’s son, Ñolofinwë who has a mother, Ñolofinwë who is more akin to Finwë than he is, Ñolofinwë who is so often silent and still, Ñolofinwë who pretends at being nonthreatening but is possessed of a subtle and cunning mind that would easier twitch a rug out of place to cause a tumble down the stairs than honestly draw upon-
  * Fëanáro has been pacing in agitation and he has to stop and press his forehead against the wall because no, he knows where this goes, he is poison and death and ruin and no matter how he hates this Ñolofinwë has already won. They both know their deeds and their deaths, and that Ñolofinwë is accounted the truer heir of Finwë and that he is the one who is remembered well in song and in history and that it is his line who has inherited the High Kingship
  * “Well?” Ñolofinwë asks
  * “What would you have me say, _Rodaran enin Golodhrim_?” Fëanáro demands in turn, because he has this at least, he may not have talking points and he may be disgraced, but from the dream-memory he has learned perhaps two or three dozen words of Sindarin, and believes he has correctly deduced more. He will find out how right he is once they reach Beleriand. _“Congratulations?”_
  * “ _That_ is what you have to say to me?” and Fëanáro has one more thing now, he has broken Ñolofinwë’s composure. “Such a dream and so long to think on it, and _that_ is your first thought?”
  * “You won!” Fëanáro snaps back, on firmer footing now that there is anger in the air
  * “It was not a _contest!_ ” Ñolofinwë yells at him
  * _“Wasn’t it!”_
  * “If it _was,_ Father chose you over us as he _always_ has so how _dare_ you say that you lost when he gave you _everything!_ ”
  * “He gave me next to nothing!”
  * “Ever has he loved you the best, though you have deserved it not; nor do you still, I see! Ungrateful and prideful and selfish-”
  * “And what a poor gift love is!” Fëanáro snarls. “So highly-valued when it is but inconstant and worthless, when it gives you nothing of substance, nothing to hold to! You had the crown and the power and the authority and the legacy, and what did I have! _Nothing,_ and less than; for I was robbed ere everything began!”
  * _“Were I a lesser man I would strike you from where you stand!”_ Ñolofinwë thunders, a threatening finger in his face and more furious than Fëanáro has ever seen in his waking hours. “Better from those words do I understand you than from all our time before, lived or dreamt; and I find I might prefer my ignorance! For I thought with too much charity, it seems, when I had considered that you would swear an evil Oath because you were undone with grief, and not because you held our father and your sons in so little regard!”
  * _“_ Love is useless if it does not come with results!” Fëanáro maintains. “What is good is love when it would not keep Finwë’s fëa bound with hröa, nor-”
  * _“_ Consider that the son who most ruined himself for this treachery and poison you give a fair guise is not undone in endless torment in the Void for the sake of love,” Ñolofinwë seethes at him
  * _“_ Consider that that is _exactly my point,_ anything less than-”
  * _“_ You are _sick!_ ” Ñolofinwë cuts him off, equal parts disgusted and enraged. “Your family would be better rid of you!”
  * _“I know!”_
  * They stand in the tense silence
  * “That was cruel of me,” Ñolofinwë says after a moment. “Father and your sons love you; for their sake at least I should not say such things.”
  * “No,” Fëanáro says. “You are correct and you should not say differently. _Listen to me,_ Ñolofinwë, if truly you do care- _‘love’_ is a paltry word, too easily a pretty platitude, and lightly used. If it is to be true, to have any meaning or worth, it must be Mother and Father would not live for me-”
  * Ñolofinwë is about to interrupt and he _can not_ let him; he pushes on, louder, so that he can drown him out if he must
  * “-my wife would not stay with me; but my sons stood with me and they swore with me and so never did I doubt that they loved me- but I could not _save them,_ I cannot- Nelyafinwë is, and I- if I- if the love is not true then there is no positive result, and if the love is not true then you must ask _‘why’_ you are worth only honeyed words, but _I love him_ and I cannot-”
  * Ñolofinwë buries his head in his hands and sighs heavily so that he does not scream into them
  * “Sometimes, Fëanáro,” he says, holding back his temper as much as he is able. “There is nothing you can do.”
  * “There _has_ to be,” his brother refuses, and there is a deep desperation hidden by that determination that Ñolofinwë doesn’t think he would have been able to notice, if not for the memory-dream. “Otherwise _what is the point?_ ”
  * Of course Fëanáro would have existential dread at the heart of his problem, he thinks far too much not to
  * “That we have tried at all,” Ñolofinwë says. “That we have made an attempt. That things are a little better than they could have been. That, despite what I think it is you are trying to say, our failures are not world-ending catastrophes, regardless of what or how big they are. And even that, sometimes, there is nothing you can do and _also_ there is no point.”
  * “There _has_ to be,” Fëanáro insists. The desperation isn’t so hidden now. “There _has_ to be some reason, some kind of _point-!_ ”
  * Ñolofinwë really can’t do anything about this, and honestly isn’t sure if he even wants to try. It doesn’t sound like something fixable. But he can pull the conversation back to where they’d been
  * “Your mother and your father love you,” he says. “As does your son. You don’t have to _prove_ It just _is._ ”
  * “I _do_ have to prove it, and it _does_ have to be proved,” Fëanáro is still insisting, _why is he like this_
  * He must be able to read this thought in Ñolofinwë’s expression, because he drags the topic around again
  * “Nelyafinwë’s madness,” Fëanáro says. “That stopping is worse than continuing on, no matter where it takes you. He thought it was from Angband. It’s not. It’s ”
  * Ñolofinwë never, _ever_ thought that he’d hear his brother admit to being mad, even with some measure of plausible deniability with his phrasing choices
  * “It’s not _pride,_ or it’s not _just_ pride,” he’s continuing. “I _can’t stop;_ if I _do_ I’ll just-”
  * Fëanáro doesn’t actually know what he’ll _‘just’_. He only knows that there’s an empty part of him, and maybe this is the poison, the empty part of him that surely could be the Void in microcosm, the empty part of him that surely his mother had killed herself trying to fill and no amount of professed love has been able to soothe, nor genius nor creation nor anything else of value
  * Not even the Silmarils had filled this howling pit he is always trying not to fall into, nor look at too long; this pit of endless demanding _‘why’_ about existence that if only he can find the correct answer for will not eat him alive because he has never found anything firm and strong enough to stand on, no potential handhold that upon examination does not contain flaws that will make it crumble under stress, no surety in the world despite all he has studied and mastered and created and discovered but eventual failure, either his own or others’
  * “You are lucky your wife and sons are not here to hear this,” Ñolofinwë says. “Nor Father.”
  * “I’m _trying,_ ” Fëanáro says



* * *

  * Fingon’s new Sindar and Green-Elf friends scatter whenever Lord Námo gets too close. This time, Maedhros is with him, so they’ve all vanished before Fingon even realized what was going on
  * He’s told anyone who will listen Maedhros’s name, and that he loves him, and that he’s not a danger to them, and that he’s their own Silver Lady’s grandson
  * It hasn’t helped. To almost everyone, Míriel is still Celebrían and Maedhros is still Andûrnor, and even among those convinced of the right names, somehow the fact that they’re related has only reinforced the nervous, fascinated distance the others hold them in
  * _Good day, Lord Námo,_ Fingon says politely, though ordered time is rather a loose concept here. Maedhros drifts over to stand with him. Námo must want to talk to both of them, then
  * _The Noldor have left Aman and gone to Beleriand,_ the Lord of Mandos informs them
  * Maedhros starts losing cohesion in shock and horror and Fingon lunges, embracing him tightly, holding his form together for him
  * _There has been no Kinslaying,_ Námo is quick to add, seeming somewhat alarmed by Maedhros’s reaction. Fingon has no idea how he _thought_ this kind of news would go over. _It was Finwë who rallied them and Finwë who leads them. Olwë was begrudging though not entirely unwilling, thinking it a poor choice, but the Teleri are ferrying them eastwards. Ulmo is granting them gentle seas, and they were well-prepared with supplies and information before they left. And no one has attempted any oath-swearing_
  * _Then **why?**_ Fingon asks, because this entire thing seems unfathomable without Fëanor at the head of it
  * _Finwë is very upset about your deaths,_ Námo answers _. And... displeased about the reactions of some of my kin to the situation_
  * All right, well, that makes a _little_ sense, but-
  * _Surely not **all** the Noldor,_ Fingon says. _How many stayed behind with Arafinwë?_
  * _Arafinwë has gone with them_
  * _Arafinwë never even really wanted to go!_ he protests
  * _His father is going, as well as all his children,_ Námo points out. _It is a larger migration than the one you remember- Indis, Findis, Lalwen, Anairë, Amarië, Nerdanel, Mahtan, and most all their people are also with them. There are not **so** many Vanyar in the host, but all the recklessly adventurous ones have left; and I will not be surprised if some of the Teleri chose to remain with Círdan, once they meet him_
  * _They are all going to die,_ Maedhros rasps, his form together enough now to clutch Fingon back. _They do not understand what they have put themselves to face!_
  * _I did speak to Finwë,_ Námo says. _I told him the Eldar cannot hope to prevail against the direct will of any Vala, much less Melkor. He thanked me for my counsel and asked that I pass on that the two of you are sorely missed by your families, and that they hope you have peace knowing you will not go unavenged_
  * _I do not want them to die for me!_ Maedhros flares, a momentary firestorm. It doesn’t burn him, but Fingon hears distant muffled gasps. His friends didn’t go _that_ far then
  * The fire fades just as quickly as Maedhros shutters down into pre-emptive despair and grief. Fingon does his best to soothe him, and keeps an eye on Námo, who’s put on his best impassive expression to judge anyone hiding close enough to be privy to their exchange
  * They feel much more alone, now
  * _Do they often lurk so?_ the Lord of Mandos ask, displeased
  * _They’re rather intimidated by you, Lord Námo,_ Fingon explains. _Well, all of us, I think; but I’m very approachable and I hope I’m winning them over_
  * _‘All of us’?_
  * _You, me, Maedhros, and Míriel. I’m not sure exactly **what** they thought Míriel was, but I had to convince them that Maedhros and I aren’t some kind of Maiar. I haven’t gotten to all of them yet, but I’m working on it_
  * **_Maiar?_**
  * _Do you know why they’d think that?_ Fingon asks. _One of my new friends said something about me being ‘bright’, and, well- they’ve taken to calling Maedhros ‘Andûrnor’. I’d really like them to stop, but I can’t figure out how to better explain that they’re wrong_
  * Námo spends some long moments looking at the two of them
  * _I **suppose,**_ he finally says. _That to those who are not wise in the subtleties of the fëa, that the direct touch of Eru upon one of His children, or the lingering shadow of the Void, would seem much the same as the inherent power of an Ainu_
  * Fingon pulls Maedhros closer
  * _But he’s all right, isn’t he?_ he asks, desperate for reassurance. _He’s not in danger?_
  * _Eru put His hand upon you both, to return you as he did,_ Námo says. _It is much akin to having been in the Light of the Trees. The imprint of it upon your fëa will never leave nor dim. It is bright in you, who simply – simply! – entered the Void, but kept yourself separate from it. But it is shadowed in him, who felt the Void a part of him at his core, however wrongly. It is a testament to Eru’s love for him that he has returned whole in fëa, if not unbroken nor well. The Void will not consume him from within_
  * Fingon cradles Maedhros and breathes a heartfelt: _Thank you_
  * Námo nods, and fades away
  * They try to take strength and comfort from each other’s presence for a while. Eventually, Maedhros breaks the silence
  * _Come with me?_ he asks, hesitant and burdened with hurt. As if Fingon would ever _not_ follow wherever Maedhros asked him to go
  * Obey, no; not unconditionally. He would stand against him, if Maedhros was turned again to evil deeds. But Fingon will gladly go with him, no matter the destination and heedless of the peril of the journey
  * Maedhros leads him by the hand into deep parts of the Halls he never would have guessed existed. They are dark and chill, but not dank; quiet and safe, but not entirely peaceful
  * They reach some unseen space that feels it should echo as like a great cavern, and Fingon realizes that everyone else is right- he _does_ have a brightness about him. It’s gentle, a clear full-moon night on fresh snow, and it doesn’t illuminate far down here, but he glows
  * Maedhros smiles a little when he sees him examining his new light, then looks away in response to some sign Fingon is insensate to
  * _Thaladis,_ he greets, and a Sinda woman steps into their quiet light. Fingon doesn’t know her, but something of her seems familiar
  * _Maedhros,_ she replies in turn, and Fingon is happy that he has other people in the Halls who use his name
  * _This is,_ Maedhros begins, then stops. He looks back at him, and squeezes his hand
  * _Fingon,_ he says. _My soul-felt hope_
  * Fingon has to press his free hand to his mouth to keep himself from being entirely overcome with emotion. Thaladis sits on the bare floor and Maedhros draws him down with him, seating him in his lap
  * _Estel-nîn_ , Maedhros calls him again, fond and reverent, as they give him time to struggle with regaining his composure
  * _I like that even better than ‘Kánya’,_ Fingon tells him tearily. _Stop showing me up until I manage to think of some lover-names, Maitimo_
  * _I don’t need you to. Don’t force yourself_
  * _I **want** to, _Fingon says. _I want to craft you a name and have it bring you this much joy_
  * There are more Sinda slipping out of the dark to sit around them. Maedhros greets some of them – Gladhil, Taudhang, Gwalwed, Muigind, Saelon – but not most
  * Fingon doesn’t think much of it until a question is hissed from the darkness
  * It’s a surprise, and the first brush goes against the harmony of his mind as it always does- but the elves around him seem far more surprised by the way he turns his head towards the voice, seeking the speaker in curious interest and not fear or malice
  * Fingon doesn’t know anything but the sound of Black Speech, and he’s not particularly interested in learning any of it, but he long ago stopped flinching or turning away at hearing it
  * Other people, if he spoke of it – which he doesn’t, because he anticipates this reaction – would likely blanch at the fact that the corrupted language of the Enemy made in mockery of the Quendi makes him think first not of Morgoth or Sauron or orcs, but of Maedhros. They’d decry it as some new horrific perversion of Arda Marred
  * But Fingon stands by his position, even if he keeps it in his head and defends it only against his imagined possibilities
  * If Black Speech makes him think of Maedhros and not Morgoth, then the Shadow is not winning
  * The Shadow is _losing,_ because Fingon hears a language made only for pain and suffering and hatred, and thinks of love
  * Maedhros answers back in the same language, and a new elf slides out of the darkness to sit with them
  * Fingon thinks about how he doesn’t know Thaladis, nor any of the others, but finds them all familiar anyway
  * Their companions are talking quietly amongst themselves in Sindarin. He uses Quenya, so as not to disturb them, or cause undue distress
  * _Maitimo,_ he says, hurting because he’s pretty sure he knows this answer already. _Were they orcs?_
  * Maedhros’s expression drops. He looks unspeakably weary
  * _Some of them,_ he confirms sadly. _But more were thralls, or prisoners who died before breaking. They are not the only who died because of the workings of evil, but the simply orc-slain, and those tortured for no reason but causing pain, rest easily above_
  * He doesn’t know any of these people, but he grieves them all the same
  * And this is a death for thoughts he never had before, first sympathy with Thingol and now this, because-
  * _Were we only ever Kinslayers?_ he asks quietly
  * The Sindar around him have stopped talking, but he can’t tell if it’s because they weren’t expecting any Quenya, or if it’s because he’d spoken Sindarin unknowingly and they understand what he’s said
  * Maedhros is silent for a while, looking out into the darkness
  * _It is a matter of intent and will, I think,_ he finally answers. It’s in Sindarin, so Fingon supposes he must have slipped languages in his sorrow. _Protecting yourself against those who would kill is not judged as kinslaying, even if they are elves. When we killed thralls sent out from Angband with Sauron wrapped around their thoughts and their actions, we did it from kindness, even if we did so after we had refused to welcome them back to protect the others, and it was not accounted as a sin, but as a mercy_
  * That hadn’t been a popular policy in West Beleriand, or even in most parts of the east, where thralls were simply driven away, if they arrived at all. But Fingon had been in Himring more than once when some soldier or smith had been sent back, and had never faulted Maedhros for it. Sauron _knew_ Maedhros was never fooled by false stories of escape or a slow return through perilous country after separation from a company- he kept sending them as a torment, as a statement as pointed as Himring itself. Maedhros could tell who had truly simply gotten lost in an ambush or who had escaped being captured before reaching Angband with merely a searching look, and welcomed the true home with happiness and relief, but he ordered those who arrived at the gates with a familiar shadow in their eyes killed. Plenty of times, he’d done it himself
  * _Those who were sent and successfully killed their families or their communities did so not of their own will,_ Maedhros continues. _And in death they suffer nothing for it but their own guilt. Many of the same methods to make thralls are used in the twisting of elves into orcs. Though once so turned they may cause further suffering of their own designs, without direction or explicit orders, they are no more free than any thrall who maintained more of their former appearance. Even orcs born and not made, who have never known else but evil, are still unfree of will. They are kin in spirit and we may kill them, but it is no Kinslaying_
  * Fingon drops his head to Maedhros’s shoulder, mostly reassured. He smiles weakly at Thaladis, in apology, because she’s watching him, and he’s not sure how to interpret her expression
  * They stay for a while longer, speaking with each other on different topics. Fingon introduces himself properly, and Maedhros shares the news that their people are returning East to fight Morgoth, and the Sindar speculate on where the Noldor might settle and what exactly they might do. This slips easily into talking of Beleriand and lost homes, and Maedhros does some of what Fingon has done with his friends, above, describing Aman to those who have never seen it and speaking the truth of Ainur who do not seek to harm, and live happily alongside the Eldar
  * _Thank you for asking me along,_ Fingon says, once they’ve said their goodbyes and returned to brighter areas of the Halls. _And for trusting me with them_
  * _They need to have someone be kind to them who is outside their suffering, but knows personally of evil,_ Maedhros says. _To prove that it is possible. They’ve long had comfort and understanding in each other, and are used to taking in new dead. I need that. I need them. But I am not really different from them, even with Morgoth’s personal attentions and your first rescue and my embrace of the Void, and that I do not keep myself in the dark. But I have had love and pity and mercy given to me, to bring me out, and they have not. Not yet_
  * Fingon presses against him and shares the surge of love and pride he feels in this moment
  * _Of course_ Maedhros starts to heal, and immediately turns around to help others
  * (He hopes it will help Maedhros as well, that he will re-learn that he can act with hope and good intentions, and that things can end in success and joy)
  * Maedhros looks down to where Fingon has clasped their hands again
  * _I cannot promise that I will not retreat into the dark,_ he says. _When things hurt. But I can that I will bring light with me, and come out again_




	5. Chapter 4

  * Absolutely nothing is going to happen, things haven’t gone the same, but Nerdanel keeps Ambarussat within eyesight from the moment the Teleri spot land until they dock in Eglarest and _everyone_ is off the ships
  * _‘Everyone’_ is not the entire host, all the Noldor would never fit- and Finwë has been meeting with Ulmo, Uinen, and Ossë as they traveled. They knew before they arrived what troubles the Faladhrim were facing
  * Arafinwë and his cohort have been dropped off at the Mouths of the Sirion. Ñolofinwë and his people are being sped ahead to the Firth of Drengist and Hithlum. Arafinwë will follow the river up and Ñolofinwë the mountains down and they’ll meet in the middle, trapping the orc army besieging King Círdan between them
  * Finwë, and so Fëanáro, and so her and Mahtan, are bringing the news of an unexpected relief force and new neighbors to Círdan directly
  * It’s a good lesson in fallible intelligence. Círdan is there to greet them at the docks, it really not being possible for the elves of the Falas to have missed such a fleet, and all seems as though it will go according to plan until Mahtan, squinting in the starlight, exuberantly roars: _“Nówë!”_ and jumps off the ship before they’ve reached the docks
  * It turns out her father and Círdan knew each other well at Cuiviénen. When they catch up to him, Mahtan is soaking wet and dripping seawater on the docks, but Círdan doesn’t seem to care at all. They’ve got their foreheads pressed together in a truly ancient greeting and they’re grinning at each other like Tyelkormo and Írissë on a good day
  * “And my daughter!” Mahtan exclaims, pulling her in, clearly continuing an ongoing talk. “And her husband! And his father, you remember Finwë!”
  * They’re feasted that night in grand style. Sure, Eglarest and Brimbothar are under siege, but they still have their sea access and they’ve just been told an entire Kindred of the Eldar has turned up and is already getting into position to fight
  * Fëanáro, Curufinwë, and her father start leading the smiths and the siege engineers the very next day. Finwë and Círdan seem set to talk for long hours; the High King asked for Makalaurë and his second daughter Lalwendë to stay with him, which means he’s expecting to need a bard and a secretary
  * Nerdanel assigns Tyelkormo the keeping of Ambarussat, since he’s planning on spending his day by the shore to find out if he can talk any of the birds into delivering messages to Ñolofinwë, Arafinwë, or Elu Thingol. They should all be able to stay out of trouble with plenty of Teleri still hanging around and watchful Faladhrim who’ve grown up on these shores
  * She takes Carnistir with her to inspect the walls and stoneworks. She’s never been to a siege before, but the Faladhrim, like the Teleri, live for their boats. She’s expecting there to be much room for Noldorin improvement on their defenses
  * Today is the first time Nerdanel gets a real-life look at an orc. She knows what they look like, from the memory-dream. They’re misshapen things, wrongly-proportioned in comparison to elves, though broken and twisted in just the right ways to make them useful for whatever task Sauron or Morgoth have in mind for them
  * (There are some who still look mostly like Eldar. Those are the ones with the freest minds, the officers and commanders, as much as such a force can have order
  * Elves-turned-orc-commanders are why there were people who could look upon her son, in another world, and believe he was one of Morgoth’s creatures. They were why Maedhros could convince himself that half a century under Morgoth outweighed centuries of life free of him)
  * But the memory-dream did not, and maybe could not, convey the feeling of malice they exude, and a strange wrong sideways-twist to looking at them that leaves her feeling just unbalanced enough to be uncertain of her footing
  * She checks on her son. Carnistir has pressed himself flat against a support wall
  * “They’re not likely to attack right this moment,” she tries reassuring him in Quenya. Carnistir is _her_ name for him, and she knew what she was talking about. Usually high emotion leaves him flushed, not even more deathly-pale. He’s _very_ scared, encountering orcs for the first time. “If they do, we fall back. We’re not prepared, and we’re not going into a fight like this.”
  * Carnistir is her middle child. He gets even more lost in the shuffle of them all than he might by his position- Makalaurë is the loudest, Tyelkormo the most headstrong, Curufinwë the most intense, Ambarussat the ones most likely to be meddling, Maitimo the one everyone had turned to. Carnistir is quiet, and ghostly with his pure black hair and almost unnaturally-white skin that shows the barest hint of increased circulation so strongly. He likes rocks, and solid building, and a steady course. All her sons have fire, they wouldn’t be Fëanáro’s children if they didn’t, but unlike all of them Carnistir is a deep, lasting heat. Aulë’s magma, the kind of molten rock that flows slowly and moves mountains and births diamonds and basalt, not the heat of the earth stolen by Morgoth for grand eruptions
  * Carnistir is implacable and easily given to grudges, with a long memory and an inability for time to soften it. He never has any true distance from the past. If she doesn’t refocus him now, his first encounter with orcs may be _all_ his encounters with orcs, and he will have long centuries of heart-stopping fear here in Beleriand
  * If she doesn’t refocus him now, he might refocus _himself_ and block out fear he doesn’t want to feel with the harnessed vengeance that has brought all her sons here. Immediately, it would only be devastating orcs from Faladhrim siege fortifications; later, it would be an unyielding march on Angband’s gates, alone if no one would go with him and through any who tried to stop him
  * Better for everyone if Nerdanel can get her son to take a breath, and _calm,_ and _focus_
  * Carnistir’s color rises, and he breathes, and he focuses
  * Nerdanel relaxes, and they go back to inspecting the stonework. There are definitely improvements to be made



* * *

  * Fëanáro is exactly as good at Sindarin as he thought he’d be, which he takes some reassuring pride in. It’s easier, this side of the sea, to feel grounded. Things are _immediate,_ they are _happening,_ the danger is _right here_ and not lurking inside him, ready to snatch him up and devour him if he thinks about it too long
  * The Faladhrim don’t have optimal forges, or metal, but they came prepared and they’re _Noldor_ and he’s _Fëanáro Silmarilndo,_ nothing so paltry as mere sub-optimal conditions is going to hinder them, or him, in any meaningful way
  * He’s quite confident they’ll be able to pulverize the besieging orcs before Ñolofinwë or Arafinwë arrive. He designs and he builds, and Curufinwë helps him, and Mahtan; and Nerdanel and Morifinwë lead the engineers on improving the fortifications and the stoneworks; and the Faladhrim and the hanger-on Teleri do boat things; and in no time at all they’ve retaken enough land around Eglarest that the Noldor can comfortably spread out to avoid crowding the city and get started on the problem on if you can grow food in starlight
  * Fëanáro is about ninety percent sure you can. At the very least, light is _light,_ and if you can gather it or focus it-
  * He messes around with lenses and crystal and glass in between thinking up stationary ballistas and moveable ravelins and invents grow lamps. The Noldor start farming. The Faladhrim are really not as impressed as they should be by this agricultural revolution
  * (“They’re small suns,” Nerdanel says when he complains. “There were Lamps before the Trees and now you’ve made lamps again. There are plants that grow deep underwater where nothing in the sky can reach them at all, and fish and smaller things that glow in the dark, and the Faladhrim and the Teleri have known about them for centuries.”
  * There’s nothing like an unimpressed Nerdanel to deflate his ego- she’s right, it’s not like he’s made anything truly He’ll come up with something better)
  * Mahtan creates a new type of plow. The Faladhrim seem mostly baffled about the concept of digging up bits of dirt to plant things when you can just go to where the things are already growing and harvest them there
  * Fëanáro hears that Ambarussat have tried explaining crop rotation and three-field systems and cooperative planting to their new neighbors. He’d never have taken his youngest for farmers, but every Noldor has their crafts, and they’re long overdue for finding things that suit them
  * The ongoing failure to impart agricultural expertise turns into some kind of disagreement, and his youngest end up obligated to go on some kind of sea-expedition, and then Telufinwë is in his workshop with a cuttlefish, showing him how it changes colors and reminding him about Turkafinwë’s weaving-camouflage
  * Fëanáro gets someone to give his third-eldest – second-eldest? No, Nelyafinwë might be dead but Turkafinwë is still his third son – a standing loom and whatever fiber he asks for. He delivers the cuttlefish himself
  * “Metallic thread, do you think?” he asks. “Silver would be easiest, but I’m not certain about the tarnishing, or how much it could stand up to. Or could you work if crystal chips were embedded in the- what are you working with? Wool? Cotton? Flax?”
  * He smashes up a bag of quartz, drills many, many tiny holes, and starts carrying around a drop spindle. It’s nice to have something to do with his hands while he walks and thinks, but it’s very annoying to have to stop to write anything down. It’s not very good for the quality of his thread, either
  * Fëanáro invents the flyer-and-bobbin treadle spinning wheel. Unfortunate that he has to sit in one place to use it, but it leaves his hands mostly free. He’ll figure out something dynamic later
  * Until then, some of Mahtan’s people who have been working on plows want to make more of the new spinning wheels. Fëanáro gives them his schematics and tells them to do whatever they want to improve on the design, or whatever they simply want to try. Better things don’t happen merely by following instructions
  * Turkafinwë weaves yards of different types of test cloth. Some of them ended up merely pretty and are gifted or traded away. Others are more useful
  * Some of them collect light, but store it. They get brighter and brighter the longer they’re out of darkness, and Fëanáro lays them out by some intense fires for a while before sending them off to the farms. By the time Aulë gets around to the moon and the sun, they might be too bright to look at, and in that case they’ll repurpose them as weaponry, if he hasn’t figured out how to drain some of the light off first
  * The rest of the cloth shimmers. None of it accomplishes the natural camouflage of the cuttlefish, but it’s dazzling and confuses outlines and makes it hard to tell exactly where anyone wearing it is. Adequate, though true invisibility would still be best
  * Turkafinwë and Curufinwë are put in charge of the cloth project
  * (It will keep Turkafinwë from disappearing on a hunt, which here in Beleriand would be far worse for Fëanáro’s nerves than seeing his silver-haired son seated before a loom is. Still, he hovers)
  * Findis and Lalwendë have decided they like the sea; or rather Findis has decided she likes the coast and Lalwendë has decided she likes Círdan. Kánafinwë has been released from meeting-music duties and taken to lingering near the walls
  * Fëanáro thinks he’s strategically deploying Songs of Power until he goes over one day to get Nerdanel’s opinion on something and passes Morifinwë
  * “No kissing on the job!” he snaps absently, well-used to foolish apprentices disregarding workplace safety in favor of the throes of passion, and keeps walking
  * He registers that was his _son_ halfway up the ramparts and turns around
  * “And _who_ is _this?_ ” he demands
  * _‘Who’_ is Orolinda Liltendiel, Noldor, master mason, daughter of a glazier and a dancer
  * He doesn’t have to ask how serious it is. None of his children love lightly, and he brought them up correctly, you have _one_ love and they are your _only_ one, _kissing_ might as well be declaring a betrothal-
  * (That’s an infuriating thing about the memory-dream. He doesn’t _want_ any of his children to be involved _like that_ with Ñolofinwë’s – or Arafinwë’s, for that matter! The friendship had been bad enough!
  * Fëanáro has verified evidence that his eldest _absolutely_ kissed Ñolofinwë’s eldest. _Multiple times._ Nelyafinwë is in true, proper love and he’ll not hear a thing against that, even if he doesn’t like Findekáno’s father and no matter the amount of yelling about kin that would be sure to result-
  * But at least Findekáno has the proper sort of devotion back, even if he’s an _imbecile_ who couldn’t recognize that Nelyafinwë might have been _saying ‘no’_ to the proposals out of a sense of politics, but _acting_ like he’d said _‘yes’_ , which was the more important part. He’d _kissed him,_ Findekáno hadn’t need to _keep asking-_
  * _Idiot_. But a loyal one. And brave. And-
  * _Ugh_
  * He refuses to credit Ñolofinwë for Findekáno, he _obviously_ got all his good qualities from somewhere else)
  * Fëanáro is halfway through both lecturing Morifinwë on not bringing Orolinda around to meet the family properly before going _this far_ and planning the wedding when Nerdanel pulls him away
  * “You’re coming for dinner!” he yells back at them. ”With your grandfather! If she doesn’t have the finery for it, Morifinwë, you are _going_ to outfit her! _Properly!_ ”
  * “Leave them _alone,_ Fëanáro,” his wife chides, amused
  * “Did _you_ know about this?”
  * Orolinda comes to dinner in clothes made from Tyelkormo’s beautiful experiments and gold jewelry Morifinwë must have begged Kánafinwë to take the time to make. It’s got malachite in it, and lapis lazuli, and gold-veined marble, and abalone. She looks like the sea
  * Fëanáro suspects Kánafinwë has found a Faladhrim sweetheart he’s hiding
  * It’s not Kánafinwë, it’s Telufinwë
  * _“Bring him to dinner,”_ Fëanáro orders, surprising them on the quay. Telufinwë falls out of Rosfaloth’s boat. The Sinda mussel-dredger saves the bucket he’d been working through, and rights it as Telvo hauls himself out of the water
  * “Did you like your cuttlefish, Your Highness?” he asks calmly
  * Fëanáro decides that it will be a double wedding



* * *

  * Anairë quite surprises herself by _enjoying_ this
  * She knows she’d fought in the War of Wrath and come home safely, but the memory-dream had contained no details of it. She’d not thought more on it
  * But she picks up a hand-and-a-half sword and a Sindar war-spear-
  * Her entire life, her craft has been chalk pastels. She’s not outstanding at it, but she’s very competent. She likes dramatic landscapes, and has done official portraiture of the entire family
  * War is nothing like it
  * War is blood and death and pain and Anairë comes to in a rush of awareness halfway down the final slope of the pass between Dor-lómin and the Talath Dirnen, the headwaters of the River Taeglin half a mile further southeast, bloody and bleeding and breathing hard, surrounded by the slain, flying high on death and survival and she is _alive_ and she could swear she hears the Song in the pounding of her heart and her harsh breathing
  * She uses her husband to exhaustion in the scanty privacy of their tent and prays long to Tulkas after he has dropped into sleep, spent
  * They strike westwards across the southern base of the Mountains of Shadow. When they camp at the Pools of Ivrin, they are surprised in the night by a company of orcs. Anairë puts her back to the shore and paints the rocks red
  * When she looks around for more orcs to kill, she finds that her husband’s standard-bearer has rallied to _her_
  * Elenwë makes her her own standard, a variant on Ñolofinwë’s golden brilliant-star (it’s a sunburst, but she can’t call it that yet, not out loud) on blue. On this standard, the brilliance bursts in white spears with the four silver stars of her children on their heads
  * _‘Ohtári’_ , Anairë’s warband calls her. _‘War Queen’_
  * She didn’t gather the warband, they gathered themselves. They’re the most battle-mad of this northern host, just as willing to throw themselves into the thick of the fighting as Anairë is, though she never remembers doing it
  * Írissë has appointed herself standard-bearer, though she doesn’t fit in with the rest of the warband at all. Anairë wishes she would relinquish the position, but her daughter is grim-eyed and determined whenever she tries to bring it up
  * “I won’t let you go alone, ammë,” Írissë eventually says
  * _‘I wasn’t with Findekáno,’_ she doesn’t have to say
  * They turn south some days after passing the headwaters of the River Nenning. They’ll come upon the Falas from the north while Arafinwë and his people come from the east, leaving the banks of the River Narog at the nearer end of the Andram Ridge. The only open direction for the orcs will be west, into the sea



* * *

  * Ñolofinwë has no direct evidence that Anairë was Arafinwë’s second-in-command in the War of Wrath, but he’s watched his wife berserk across the southern foothills of the Mountains of Shadow, and she’d lived to return to Aman in the other world
  * He never would have thought it of her
  * Though, he wouldn’t have thought Turukáno would found a city and forbid anyone from leaving it
  * Or that Findekáno would voluntarily walk into Morgoth’s territory or into the Void
  * Or that he himself would have been High King of the Noldor, respected and honored, dying in glorious battle against Morgoth, having actually managed to harm him
  * Beleriand is a land for surprises, it seems
  * Their plan to encircle the besieging orcs goes flawlessly. Arafinwë rides over to meet him after they’ve fortified their encampments
  * “I told Eärwen we didn’t have to worry!” he says happily, over the celebratory wine he’s brought. “We got a little delayed, you see, Ulmo told the Sirion who told Melian who told her husband we were coming, and Elu Thingol rode out himself to come see us. He only let the family past the Girdle, but he was extremely pleased to have news of Olwë, and meet his niece and grandnephews. And Artanis. Artanis took a liking to Melian- or Melian took a liking to her? Anyway, she stayed in Menegroth. And _then_ we were stalled for five days at the end of the Andram, because we lost Findaráto and Amarië.”
  * His younger brother waves off his alarm. Ñolofinwë rather hysterically wonders if Arafinwë is too drunk to be concerned. Then he thinks maybe _he’s_ the one who’s drunk
  * “It’s fine, they came back, Ulmo wanted a word and they got a bit turned around on the riverbanks. But if we hadn’t been headed to war I think Findo would have stayed lost in those hills with his wife. They’re still newlyweds, you know!”
  * It’s a still a strange time for marriage, but it seems they will happen regardless, because the very second they’ve finished with the missives about military action and coordination signals from their father, the messenger pulls out espousing announcements for both of them in Fëanáro’s calligraphy. Carnistir _and_ Ambarto have managed to get betrothed
  * The date for their weddings is set for _‘as soon as possible after we break this siege, hurry up’_
  * Also Lalwendë is married now; but in true Finwielan style, she’d only told anyone _after_ having slept with Círdan
  * Ñolofinwë’s family is such a headache



* * *

  * Breaking the siege progresses at a respectable pace once the rest of the Noldor arrive. Nerdanel watches, satisfied, from her much-improved fortifications as the orcs break and the rout streams west
  * _“Finally,”_ Fëanáro mutters from her side
  * “Don’t get too excited yet, dear,” she tells him. “We still have to clean up, and your father needs to get out of his snit about Lalwendë and Círdan, and _then_ we can have the weddings.”
  * That’s strategic discouragement. She could make a long list of things Fëanáro is intense about, but marriage is near the top. No one can do anything about Finwë’s attitude but Finwë, and perhaps Indis, but her husband’s impatience will make finishing this stage of the war proceed at a feverish pace. And it will be _thorough_
  * While her husband is distracted by massacring orcs, Nerdanel puts the weddings together, which all her sons, not just Carnistir and Ambarto, are relieved about. They all remember Curufinwë and Menelissë’s wedding
  * It hadn’t been It was just-
  * “A lot,” Makalaurë summarizes, utilizing ironic understatement. “Stop worrying, Moryo, Telvo- I was already covering for you. Ammë and I together can keep atto out of it.”
  * It’s a much bigger event than Findaráto and Amarië’s had been, back in Tirion. Part of it is simply that there are twice as many people getting married. Part of it is spill-over from the larger celebration of the end of the siege. Part of it is that there are more people to invite in Beleriand. Part of it is, inevitably, Fëanáro, but she’s successfully prevented him from overwhelming the proceedings
  * Their entire family is there, of course, which now includes Círdan and his inner court. Elu Thingol refuses to leave the bounds of Doriath, as ever, but in light of this being a family matter through Eärwen Olwiel’s marriage to Arafinwë – and, Nerdanel suspects, because he’s just as put out by his vassal-king getting married without notice as Finwë still is about his daughter initiating it in the first place – he’s sent his brother the Prince of Neldoreth, the youngest of the Elu-Olwë-Elmo royal trio. Artanis isn’t with him, dwelling still in Menegroth with Melian, but she’s sent her well-wishes
  * The weddings are wonderful. Nerdanel is glad to welcome Orolinda and Rosfaloth, and Fëanáro seems inordinately proud of the fact that _two_ of their sons have already found spouses. They have the most children, and the most _unmarried_ children, this was going to happen by sheer probability
  * Prince Elmo lingers in talks with Finwë. Nerdanel assumes they’re continuing some discussion begun when Arafinwë was detained in Doriath and concentrates on ordering their House. Orolinda and Carnistir’s marriage is slowly shifting some of the internal politics of their followers – Maitimo had had his adherents, and Orolinda and her family and their extended kinship-social group had been of their number. They’d attached to Fëanáro’s faction out of loyalty and vengeance, but now they default to Carnistir’s, and more of Maitimo’s former people are following them, but others are uneasy with switching allegiances so quickly a third time, and yet others who hadn’t counted themselves among Maitimo’s followers have become attached to Orolinda’s kin or those who were going with them and are debating the merits of adhering to Carnistir-
  * Rosfaloth marrying into the family is much simpler. Ambarussa has inherited his kinship network, but the Faladhrim aren’t particularly interested in breaking from Círdan to follow some new-come Noldor lords, no matter if they might be related to them now
  * She’s expecting nothing out of the ordinary for her day when Finwë summons all his children, and any of his grandchildren who wish to attend him, to the house built near the edge of Eglarest for the High King of the Noldor
  * Prince Elmo is there with him, and stays until everyone who is required to attend has arrived
  * He takes his leave with: “By the grace and authority of Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, High King of Beleriand, will your decisions here be ratified.”
  * “It is time to apportion lands,” Finwë clarifies, after the door has closed behind Prince Elmo



* * *

  * Fëanáro has spent some time considering the divisions of lordships in Beleriand-that-was
  * Given where the Noldor had ended up arriving, by sea or by land, the claiming of Hithlum as the seat of the High King makes sense
  * Nelyafinwë’s decision to take his brothers as far east as possible was also logical, given the circumstances. His fortress on Himring also follows – the northern frontiers are the front lines of a war against Angband. Himring held the east, Barad Eithel the west, and in the center-
  * He doesn’t know much about Dorthonion, other than that Angaráto and Aikanáro had held it. That had puzzled him, until he’d made the connection of Nelyafinwë being friends with Findekáno and Findekáno being friends with the less-famous Arafinwian brothers. Dorthonion and her Lords hadn’t survived to be contemporaneous with Findekáno as High King, but if they had, there would have been a solid wall of interconnected friendship-kinships on the frontier against Morgoth
  * Fëanáro has to wonder if the Nírnaeth would have been differently named, if Dorthonion and Angaráto and Aikanáro had been available. Would they have won? Would there have been a second Long Peace?
  * How well did Angaráto and Aikanáro know his eldest son? How well _do_ they know him? If he went to them now, in this world, what could they say about Nelyafinwë?
  * He really doesn’t know Ñolofinwë and Arafinwë’s children well enough to properly speculate on their skills, temperaments, or placements, but he can about his own children
  * Nelyafinwë at Himring: an excellent choice, possibly the best-made of the entire settling of the Noldor in Beleriand. Only the hidden cities lasted longer, and _they_ had only survived out of secrecy
  * Kanafinwë at the Gap: strange. He’s not an equestrian, but then the only one of his sons who comes close to that is Turkafinwë. Fëanáro would say that Kanafinwë is the least-suited of his sons to war, but, well- he’d been the last one standing of them all. He clearly has hidden depths, though he can’t say he wants to delve them simply to discover what they are
  * Turkafinwë and Curufinwë at Aglon: halfway intelligible. Aglon had enough trees to go up in a firestorm, and Turkafinwë knows forests in a way his other sons don’t. The mountain slopes and high hills and the flatter lands of Himlad behind them needed watching, and again, Turkafinwë is well-suited for stealth and scouting – and the mountains there aren’t called the Mountains of Terror for nothing, nor their southern slopes the Valley of Dreadful Death. There are monsters there, and Turkafinwë is sworn to Oromë. Curufinwë is the odd one here, except for that the two of them work well together and make a good team. Still, he feels that Curufinwë would have better thrived further east and south, closer to the dwarves
  * Morifinwë at Mount Rerir: puzzling. Certainly he has the talent with construction and stonework to have built the other northern fortress, he’s the only one who could have; and though Fëanáro knows he’d lost it twice, there had been absolutely no indication in the memory-dream that he’d ever done particularly _poorly_ at his post. He’d come over better than Turkafinwë and Curufinwë, for certain. _They’d_ never gotten their land back after the Long Peace was broken
  * Pityafinwë in Nedhelion: a good show of family-focused thinking, he’d make the same decision. That wasn’t about his strengths, that was keeping the youngest-living member of the family as far from the fighting as possible
  * But this world isn’t that world. The Noldor are united, and so there are more royals needing holdings than the old divisions can account for
  * Fëanáro pulls over a large sheet of parchment and starts sketching Beleriand. If anyone asks, he’s prepared to say he’s extrapolating from information learned from the Sindar. In actuality, he’s drawing it from his son’s memory
  * “The northern frontier is also the front lines of the war,” he says as he draws. “It must be our strongest showing. The pass into Mithrim, here, at the Headwaters of the Sirion, would make an excellent position to both attack from and retreat into Hithlum. The mountains are high enough that a large population of Sindar have dwelt behind them with less danger from Morgoth that could otherwise be expected. It’s the best of the good positions in the north, and should contain a key strategic fortress held by someone with large forces and respected authority.”
  * “It will be the seat of the High King,” his father declares, and Fëanáro doesn’t twitch and ruin his lines as he inks in the Blue Mountains, but it would be _nice_ if Finwë would stop inadvertently imitating a never-was world that he doesn’t even know about
  * “The rest of the frontier is more problematic,” Fëanáro continues. “The main passes are of Sirion, Anach, and Aglon. There’s also Rerir, through the Blue Mountains, but that faces eastwards, not north. And then there’s the large gap here where the Blue Mountains taper off but before the northern highlands on the eastern side of the Pass of Aglon, where Lothlann runs into the Gelion. The furthest east will need a strong hand.”
  * He hesitates, because he hasn’t discussed this with his wife, but-
  * “We’re taking it,” Fëanáro says, and puts an _‘x’_ on his map where Himring will be. “Nerdanel and I.”
  * “You always have been the adventurous ones,” Arafinwë Fëanáro’s paying attention to him, and to Nerdanel, who’s sending approval at him through the marriage bond he will _not_ open no matter _how_ many times she tries to get a response from him, which is why he misses who reaches out to take whose hand: Turkafinwë or Írissë
  * “And _we’re_ taking that gap,” Turkafinwë “The east needs a strong hand? It would be shorter to enter the south going through Sirion or even Anach, but Lothlann is wide open and you could easily march a host through that lowland. If Morgoth comes out of Angband, he’s coming east, and he’s going to head _right there._ ”
  * “Lothlann and Ard-Galen are nothing but plains,” Írissë “They need good riders. They need _cavalry._ And there’s- we’re the best, of all of you. Who are left.”
  * Fëanáro doesn’t want his children so directly on the front lines and he doubts Ñolofinwë does either, but neither of them are wrong, and he doesn’t need them to say anything out loud to know that they’ve made this decision knowing their strengths and knowing that they’re the only ones of all their siblings to have any idea what Morgoth can and will do
  * He notes them down in the empty space between the mountains and the hills, and wonders what the northeast will be called, in this world. In Beleriand-that-isn’t, this had been the March of Maedhros and the Gap of Maglor. Will it be the March of Fëanor, here? The Gap of Celegorm and Aredhel is unwieldy. Surely it will have another name
  * “Anairë and I are taking Dorthonion,” Ñolofinwë “We’re here because of what Morgoth did to Findekáno and Nelyafinwë. It’s only right that all of us take the north.”
  * “Well, if we’re making decisions on _those_ kinds of grounds,” Arafinwë says after a few moments, clearly trying to inject some levity into the solemnity that has fallen. “Eärwen and I should be close to Doriath. What with Uncle Elwë ruling there, and I rather doubt we’ll be extracting Artanis anytime soon.”
  * “East of Círdan and Lalwendë and west of Elwë and Melian,” Eärwen says. “And north of those hills we’ve lost Findaráto to. I’m quite certain he’ll be claiming them.”
  * “You know me so well, ammë!” Findaráto grins
  * The rest of Arafinwë’s children fall in north of their parents. Findis claims Drengist and Lammoth. Turukáno seems shifty when he claims the Pass of Sirion and the headwaters of the Lithir, the Malduin, and the Taeglin. Fëanáro would put it to nerves, but he has knowledge most of the rest of the room doesn’t, and he’s suspicious of this attitude. Soon, he’s sure, Turukáno will take Elenwë and Itarillë and all his people and disappear into Gondolin
  * (Which is likely nearby the lands he’s claimed, unless he’s as conniving as his father and trying to throw people off- no, Turukáno has no reason to suspect any of them know what he’s up to. _‘Gondolin’_ can mean _‘hidden rock’_ if it’s purely Sindarin, or _‘rock of the water music’_ if it’s Sindarized Quenya. It can’t be in the Pass of Sirion, otherwise someone would have found it earlier than they did. There are thick, relatively inaccessible mountains near Ivrin, which isn’t too far away, but the Pools, though reportedly beautiful, don’t quite fit the idea of water music. There’s another thick area where the Mountains of Mithrim meet the Mountains of Shadow, and there are many headwaters of many rivers there. Gondolin is either there, or in the Echoriath between the Sirion and the Pass of Anach, and there are eagles nesting in their southern reaches and Thorondir had known where to find Gondolin-
  * When Turukáno disappears this time, it won’t be for long. Fëanáro won’t let him)
  * Arakáno puts himself down for Ladros, which makes Ñolofinwë look ill. Anairë looks determined, though, so Fëanáro thinks their youngest son probably won’t be one of the earliest casualties of the war in this Beleriand, no matter how close to Morgoth he’s put himself
  * Morifinwë claims Rerir, which spooks him. _Why_ is that the place for him in two worlds-
  * Nerdanel writes her father’s name onto Thargelion and highlights Belegost and Nogrod to forestall anyone who would think to complain. That’s where he’d though to put Curufinwë, but he’s not going to argue with her on this. Mahtan and the dwarves will get along _excellently_. For all he knows, Mahtan might actually speak Khuzdûl
  * He writes Telufinwë’s name on the Bay of Balar for the sake of his new Faladhrim husband and for his own peace of mind. His twin, he puts just north him
  * Ambarussat shouldn’t be separated, and Pityafinwë has still been working with the farmers. Giving him oversight of the rich lands of the southern Sirion and Narog rivers keeps him with farmers, with his twin, _and_ south of the Andram, which is as far from the frontier as Fëanáro can possibly get them
  * Nerdanel presses into his side briefly to express her relief
  * This still leaves them with Kanafinwë and Curufinwë, though; and not much land left
  * Fëanáro hesitates over Nevrast
  * “The plains between Doriath and Thargelion for Makalaurë,” Nerdanel says firmly. “No, yonya, don’t look at me like that. You’re the eldest, you’ll need that kind of experience leading and administrating. You’re too close to the High Kingship to get out of this.”
  * Kanafinwë obviously doesn’t _want_ to be as close to the High Kingship as he is, but his wife is right, even if Fëanáro has not missed that Nerdanel hadn’t said _‘third in line’_. Is she being diplomatic to Ñolofinwë and Anairë, or-?
  * Curufinwë could have Nevrast. He won’t let himself _not_ have a lordship, not when all his younger brothers and cousins have them
  * But Nevrast is in the west. It will be so far away
  * Fëanáro gives Curufinwë Himlad – Arafinwë or one of his sisters can have Nevrast. Himlad still isn’t the best place for the son who takes after him the most, but it keeps him close, and that’s more important. He’ll be neighbors with Turkafinwë and Írissë, and Mahtan and the dwarves will be just across the Gelion, and he and Nerdanel will be between their son and Morgoth
  * (He specifically makes sure that Aglon and the Mountains of Terror are noted as part of Himring’s territory, and not Himlad’s. Curufinwë won’t be able to handle that. Let him focus on raising Tyelperinquar)



* * *

  * They have a very loose kind of leadership, in the dark. Any who truly cared for kings had long before gone to Doriath or the Falas, and lived in relative safety there
  * They are mostly Lordless Elves, here, of the mountains and the unenchanted forests and the wide open spaces of Beleriand and Eriador. Easier prey for the Dark Lord and his servants than elves who would retreat into the sea, or the caves of Menegroth and the power of Melian
  * They had been farmers and trappers and bowyers and crofters and beekeepers and freshwater-fishers and miners and smiths and wheelwrights and carpenters and foresters and brewers and merchants and masons and healers and bards and weavers and herders-
  * And then they had fallen into Shadow, and to death; and still they find comfort in the dark
  * They’d never felt entirely safe, here, any of them, waiting for the next horror to come down on them
  * So recently, they’d been certain it had finally happened, the worst thing
  * The Breaker had found them again, cleverly disguising himself as one of the servants of the Lord here in the form of an elf, able to hide most of his power but not all of it, enough so that their cousins in the brighter areas saw him and named him _‘Andûrnor’_ ; and even with this the Lord did not notice
  * (Or they and their ancestors had been right, to not continue West to put themselves into the power of the kin of the Dread Rider, to not listen to the waves on the shore and sail with Círdan who spoke with Ulmo, to not give in to the temptations of deep caves within deeper forests and bow to Melian; because all the gods were the same and the Lord of this place had only been playing along until the Breaker was ready to come for them again-)
  * They had watched and hidden and whispered to themselves, fearing the inevitable, and then finally the Breaker had walked into the darkness after them
  * And in the darkness _He_ was of the darkness, and too bright all at once, and his fire was fell and deep and Dark, and they had known he was not the Breaker but _something else_ and who else could be so dread and terrible and yet speak the language of orcs and monsters?
  * The Dark Lord Himself had come, and they were _lost_
  * They have a loose leadership in the dark, none commanding the others but the same familiar souls at the center of their community, and so no one could or would order any of the others to go before the Dark Lord, but all were in terror of being the first
  * She had gone first, when no one else would answer Him. The longer they left Him waiting, the worse it would be; and it was foolish and dangerous to hope that being first would mean her torment would be over soonest, but it lodged in her heart regardless as she abased herself and called Him _‘Lord’_ , and she knew she would pay for it dearly
  * But the lordship was denied, and the stranger used Elf-speak, and knelt with her, and spoke of safety and decried the Breaker, and named her _‘valiant’_ for facing him
  * He’d left without harming her, and Thaladis has stayed on the floor and shivered, more than half unconvinced that they were not being toyed with. Kindness and gentleness and mercy and pity were the cruelest tortures, for you _knew_ they were false and a trap and yet still you craved them and after so long a time of pain and suffering you would reach for them even as you hated yourself for freely drinking the poison offered you and every time, you broke a little more-
  * But he’d come again and left again, and come and gone, and again and again and-
  * Every time, he hurt no one, nor searched out any of those who watched half-hidden, and those who approached him who had no names to claim he named honorably
  * _‘Valiant woman’_ , he had named her; and others he called _‘laughter-lover’_ , and _‘fortunate life’_ , and _‘gentle-hearted’_
  * They were names of people who were not orcs or slaves, not broken or in Shadow. They were the names of people happy and free
  * He’d kept returning, seeking the same comfort and understanding they all did in each other, they who were scared to leave the dark and were orcs and thralls and half-broken prisoners
  * He’d claimed that last, and knew Angband and the Breaker’s tortures in far too much intimate detail to be lying, even if-
  * You did not question too deeply, in the dark. Some things were too terrible to speak of, or else could not be prompted. Simple questions that could have simple answers were the best
  * _How long?_ one of the other broken prisoners had asked
  * _One of my brothers had a very young son when I was taken,_ he’d answered. _By the time I was rescued, he was past full-grown_
  * They would have called it impossible to have survived that long, much less be rescued- but they had mistaken him for the Breaker and for the Dark Lord and been wrong both times, and those mistakes had not been made from a lack of observation or unfamiliarity with the power inherent in cruel gods’ souls
  * And then, and _then!_ – he had brought along a man of such light he shone with it, and called him _‘Estel-nîn’_ and the shining one had near-cried with happiness over lover-names, and he had heard Black Speech from them and held only fear that those who protected themselves from orcs and spy-thralls were killing kin, because he knew them to be orcs and thralls and half-broken prisoners of Angband but he looked at them and decided they were elves
  * They’d talked about these two a long time, in the dark
  * Just Maedhros had been conundrum enough: he disclaimed power and dominion even as he burned so and spoke of _‘Sauron’_ and _‘Morgoth’_ as though he could challenge them; he had so much of the Dark about him yet was kind and truthful and dwelt in the light; he counted himself of the elves who had crossed the great western sea but spoke as an elf of Beleriand, fluent in their language and correct in his details of far-flung and inhospitable corners of the continent and was so obviously one who had suffered and fallen under Shadow and seen others do the same when they all _knew_ that no elf of the Far West had ever yet returned across the sea
  * The man he called Estel-nîn was worse: bright and untouched by Shadow, who the upper Halls still more than half-thought to be something akin to Melian; but he came willingly into the dark and was not afraid and cared for them even though he knew what they were and he _loved_ Maedhros, who was as cloaked in Dark-hearted fire as he was in light, and neither had said but it was obvious that Fingon had been the one who’d rescued him
  * They were impossible and strange, and there was no place in the world that could fit both what they were and what they said about themselves, but they were also _not lying_
  * All of them had practice with lies, of course. They could tell that the two were withholding information and using leading phrasing to obscure things
  * But that was no worse than any of them did, in the dark. By their own standards, Maedhros has been astonishingly forthright and open
  * Thaladis _trusts him,_ and the fear she has is that she might trust another who she shouldn’t and not that he will betray her, and that she is not scared of the inevitable trap scares her, and-
  * And he had named her _‘Valiant’,_ and she _wants_ that to be true; so when Maedhros had asked on his last visit if anyone was interested in or willing to go out of the darkness with him to see the bright corridors they only ever spied on from a distance-
  * This isn’t quite the furthest she’s ever been out of the dark, but it’s far past the point where they always stay hidden for fear of chance encounters, and they’re not even anywhere truly bright yet
  * _If it hurts too much,_ Maedhros says, putting his hand on her shoulder
  * _No,_ Thaladis says, choking on her own denial. _No, I **want** to, I can-_
  * But her fear has frozen her in place
  * _I’m being **brave,**_ she insists
  * _You are,_ Maedhros says. _And you’ve done very well. But there is no shame in something being too much, and having to try again later_
  * _No, no,_ Thaladis weeps, tears streaming down her face. _No I will **do this-**_
  * She cannot move and she despises herself for it, and despairs; and longs for the dark and despises herself even more
  * _Thaladis?_ Maedhros asks
  * **_Please,_** she begs him, not knowing what she’s asking for
  * He’s quiet, for a moment, then shifts to wrap an arm around her
  * _Close your eyes?_ he suggests, hesitant in the way you ask after things that hurt when you wish not to cause pain. _And take my arm? And walk with me_
  * She does, screwing her eyes shut tight against the late-twilight dimness of these not-bright Halls; and she does, clutching at his right arm as his left holds her securely; and she does, though it is more that Maedhros walks both of them, steady and slow
  * Thaladis _trusts_ him, and is trying not panic. She knows if she says that she wants to stop, to go back, he will take them; and she wants so badly to say so but she is being _brave-_
  * _Ai, Maitimo!_ she hears Fingon cry in distress, and the sudden evidence of another’s presence sets her shaking
  * _It’s all right, Thaladis,_ Maedhros is trying to reassure her. _It’s just Fingon, you’re safe_
  * _Are you hurt?_ Fingon is asking her
  * _Do you need help?_ someone else is asking, and she flinches
  * _Losereg!_ Fingon exclaims, sounding startled
  * It’s worse, opening her eyes and seeing who it is, where she is. It’s worse, keeping her eyes closed and not knowing exactly what is going on around her. There are no good choices and every moment is but an opportunity for more suffering-
  * The Halls here seem so bright in comparison to where she lives and the unforgiving openness of it is worse than any prison cell and Maedhros has an arm around her and Fingon is shifting between her and the stranger who is a Green-Elf and everything is too much-
  * Thaladis screams her fear and weeps her stress and Maedhros has spun across her front to hold her with both arms and hide her face in his shoulder
  * _I’ll take you back-_ he’s promising
  * _No, **brave,**_ Thaladis protests and she _hates_ what she’s saying-
  * _You’re hurting yourself,_ Maedhros counters. _Please, do not-_
  * There is an awful, awful presence suddenly
  * _Now is likely not the **best** time,_ _Lord Námo,_ she hears Fingon say, and she flinches hard into Maedhros’s embrace. She is existing in a haze of terror and old pain and a god is being defied and she wants to sink to the ground and beg and debase herself whatever she has to do to receive even a moment’s reprieve and she wants to lock her knees and stand defiant and look the Lord of these Halls in the eye as she knows Fingon and Maedhros do _she wants to be Thaladis_ and not the orc she is and she wants to be free in the light but in the darkness she can hide and be safe-
  * Her eyes are squeezed shut again and her face is buried in his shoulder and Maedhros burns in her vision regardless, fey and powerful and comforting in a way she is ashamed of, because he is good and kind and one of theirs and deserves better than for her to think thusly and because it is a sick thing to find comfort in the memory of besides because the Breaker, Sauron, is also Darkness and fire, that familiarity should not cause her anything but pain but yet-
  * Orcs are horrifically broken things
  * _Go away,_ Maedhros is _demanding_ of the Lord, _harshly,_ fierce, protective of her, and she is reeling with his audacity and terrified of what the god will do to him and so utterly exhausted underneath it all. _The only Ainu she knows the touch of is Sauron and you are **hurting** her_
  * She is shaking so badly she can barely stand and inside she is screaming quietly but she has had worse. She shoves them apart, though she doesn’t let go of his shoulders and Maedhros doesn’t let go of her, and faces the Vala
  * He isn’t monstrous in the way of a Balrog, nor terrifyingly beautiful as the Breaker is. The Lord of these Halls is swathed in a dull grey cloak with a deep shadowed hood. She’s not certain she can actually see a face in it, but there’s either a suggestion of one or else she is desperate to find one and the presence about him is pervasive and it doesn’t scorch or whisper of torments and evil pleasures but it is there and Maedhros wouldn’t have brought her here if it was dangerous and he would have already pulled her away if the Lord was going to hurt her and _she trusts him and she is Thaladis she is **brave** she is **Thaladis-**_
  * _You are,_ Lord Námo agrees and she is consumed with the terror of knowing that he is like the Breaker, he can know her thoughts, he can see anything she is and anything she tries to hide-
  * _How many years I have waited for one the Lost of the Firstborn to return from the Dark,_ he whispers, and she thinks it must be solely for her. _Your coming was looked for, and longed for, and my sister Nienna smiles as she weeps for knowing your bravery to stand here. You are welcomed, Thaladis, and cherished_
  * He lays a hand upon her and she knows only that she sobs once before losing herself completely
  * When she comes back she is on her knees on the floor, Maedhros tucked around her and Fingon next to them and the Green-Elf Losereg just beyond, who smiles lopsided at her in greeting and some measure of sympathy
  * The brightness of the Halls is not too much to bear, and there is a seed of peace and safety in her heart that she had thought lost forever
  * She is Thaladis of Beleriand, and she is no orc




	6. Chapter 5

  * They know the Noldor have arrived in Beleriand because some of them begin appearing in the Halls
  * Maedhros hides, and Fingon doesn’t try to pull him out. He also has no idea what to do with these of his people, who think of him as a poor lost innocent, murdered, a victim, a tragedy
  * _‘The Princes!’_ he’s told, is the rallying cry of the Noldor in Beleriand
  * The dead Noldor don’t even recognize him. Not that he’d known any of them in this world before their deaths, but princes are public people and they know what Findekáno Ñolofinwion looks like
  * He’s gotten puzzled looks, and people will start towards him but then stop, or begin speaking and cut themselves off with an apology for mistaking him for someone else
  * Fingon is too old, too bright, too kingly to be Findekáno Ñolofinwion of Tirion
  * He retreats into the twilight halls on the edge of Maedhros’s darkness when when the Noldor start calling him _‘Tar-Maltya’_
  * _I am a Kinslayer,_ he says to Maedhros over that shadowed boundary. _Alqualondë I ravaged with you and your House, and Exiled I was for it, and across the Grinding Ice I went and froze and more of my people died for my enthusiasm, and then a world on fire I endured until in the end I died of it. I have seen Thangorodrim and Morgoth and werewolves and Balrogs and dragons and the Void, and I was High King, and I have known greater grief and pain than any of them, and I have spoken with Eru Ilúvatar, and none of them know me_
  * _None of them can,_ he doesn’t say. _None of them should_
  * The light is hard again for Maedhros, right now, but he crosses over to sit with him and hold his hand
  * The Halls are chilled, here, and it is not helping Fingon’s state of mind; but he cannot brave warmth, at the moment
  * It’s an old problem, one he’d thought put to rest years ago, but here it is again and he wishes it gone even as part of him clings to it, as happens when pain is familiar
  * There is a reason Maedhros can confide in him, beyond their love, and beyond that he is not one of his brothers who he had to be strong for
  * There is a reason that Fingon can chase him anywhere, even into the dark, and it is not simply that he loves Maedhros beyond sense and reason and measure
  * The Helcaraxë had not been kind, it was no secret. Even in Valinor they had known it to be unforgiving, and none of the Noldor who had crossed it came away untouched by some damage, whether it be the physical effects of cold and little food, or a fear of winter or chill or starvation or drowning, or the mental weight of such protracted fear and grief of being surrounded by uncertain but inevitable death for so long, or the meat-revulsion that made so many Noldorin feasts in Beleriand heavy on breads and vegetables and fruits
  * Fingon has his share of those. Some deadened nerves from exposure. A fearful need for high fires and feasts when blizzards come in the winter
  * And arriving in Beleriand clinging to the last bit of love untouched at least by the bitterness and hatred of the Ice, following it desperately into volcanic mountains that made an island of warmth in the still-cold north
  * Fingon had been at the head of the Ñolofinwean charge into Alqualondë. He had been the most enthusiastic about Fëanor’s vision of the east outside of his uncle’s immediate family. Few enough people have ever considered he and Maedhros lovers, both out of their discretion and likely because most would have found it unthinkable of cousins, but _everyone_ knew how close they were in friendship
  * And then the hosts of the House of Fingolfin were Kinslayers, for his father and siblings following him following Maedhros following Fëanor, and they were Doomed and Exiled
  * And then the ships were burned, and they took to the Ice
  * No matter that it had been his father truly leading them onto the Helcaraxë- cold and starvation and anger had prevailed
  * Plenty had died on the crossing, of weather or lack of food or grief or accidents in such a hostile environment. People were sometimes in the wrong place, when ice broke or moved unexpectedly, or a crevasse was not spotted in time, or the winds howled down and blinded everyone with snow, or the killer-whales and snow-bears sensed weak prey, or-
  * Accidents, too many to count. Everyone had near-misses, as well
  * Some of Fingon’s near-misses had actually been accidents, but he was only sure of those because they were the few that had happened when he was as alone as they’d let anyone be, on the ice
  * People had tried to kill him, on the Helcaraxë. They were already Kinslayers, so why not once more?
  * If it even counted as that, and not justice
  * Someone had pushed Fingon into a crevasse, once. That’s the only maybe-accident he knows for certain wasn’t one, because he remembers hands on his back, shoving
  * The inside of the ice had been a beautiful clear blue that has put him off wearing his father’s colors true ever since. Gold, yes, Beleriand had seen him adding even more into his hair and his clothes; and silver if he has to, though it makes him shiver at odd times
  * His blues are only in the grey tones of Hithlum mists and storms off the sea, or in the deep navy of twilight. No summer skies, no turquoise waves. No aquamarines nor topazes
  * He’d never matched his father, who could easily and proudly wear his chosen colors bright, though he’d been careful not to clash. He’d let people assume things about deliberately making the gold more eye-catching with a dark or dull background
  * He’d let poetic license pass without comment, both the ones where songs brightened the blue to pair it with shining silver and those who sung of the gold flash of lightning on stormclouds, flattering their Crown Prince and High King with allusions to his favored Vala and Manwë’s reciprocal eagle
  * He doesn’t know who pushed him and he spoke of the not-accidents to no one, until Maedhros had thought to gift him with true blue silk and recognized remembered fear in his eyes at the sight
  * The silk had gone to Fingolfin. Maedhros found him velvet in a navy so dark and rich it could have been the night sky, thick enough that he could wear it on Himring’s walls and feel only mildly chilled
  * These Noldor, in this world, in these Halls, have never drawn swords on one another or even seen the Grinding Ice. They have none of the bitter hatred of Fëanor and his sons that had quietly dogged Fingon by association even as High King and even in the best times of Beleriand, even in victory and even in peace
  * He had been hated on the Ice and on the shores of Mithrim eyes had watched suspiciously for the moment he would cross the water to the other camp and it had been _easy_ to speak to no one and slip out in the night and go to Angband to search for Maedhros, because he might not have known then that Maedhros had wanted to send the boats back but he did know that his cousin, even if he no longer loved him, would not hate him for Alqualondë or Helcaraxë or Exile, and would not be finding comfort in thinking of ways to murder him
  * (And he went because he loves him, and because even if he didn’t no one deserves Morgoth and Sauron, and because he is valiant and good-hearted; but in the cold of a dark winter night or a miserable campaign-camp, or under the eyes of another who had known the Ice, those things can be harder to hold to
  * _‘By treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason,’_ Námo had said in his Doom; and it was meant specifically for the House of Fëanor but by plenty of people’s estimations, Fingon Fingolfinion was more than halfway to being one of them)
  * The Noldor of this world think him an innocent, a victim of evil, a great but uncomplicated tragedy
  * They do not know that he has done evil, too- but how to speak of it, to say anything and be believed, when, if he had not lived it, any explanation for his and Maedhros’s position he would find an absurd and distasteful fanciful lie _at best,_ but more likely a strange delusion in madness
  * It grates badly, to be thought better of than you are. It _hurts,_ and it births shame and strange kind of desperation to prove yourself worse to stop the lie
  * _You’ve felt like this, haven’t you,_ Fingon says, offering the tangled emotional conundrum for inspection
  * Maedhros pulls him closer
  * _So often,_ he confirms. Fingon wants to take his pain from him, but the problem with this is that love and mercy and kindness _are_ what hurts, and the pain has to happen before any healing possibly occur, and he wants to keep Maedhros from hurting at all. _Mostly-_
  * _You can tell me,_ Fingon says, when he doesn’t continue
  * _When you say you love me,_ Maedhros admits, pained, and he’s not pulling away but Fingon grabs him anyway to prevent the possibility. _When you save me- I’m sorry, I-_
  * _I’m sorry it hurts you,_ Fingon says
  * _So am I_
  * _I won’t stop doing it,_ he half-apologizes
  * _I don’t want you to,_ Maedhros says, and they arrange themselves so Fingon’s face is pressed against his chest and Maedhros is wrapped around him, pressing close enough that their imagined edges blend together. _It hurts, but if you stopped-_
  * The Void yawns around them, in his memories, and the desolation after the Nírnaeth, and breaking in Angband, and Silmarils, and a fiery crack in the earth to match Fingon’s glacial crevasse
  * _Don’t you stop either,_ Fingon begs
  * _I could **never,**_ Maedhros says fiercely, and it edges on an oath. _You are good, and deserving, and my hope and my light and my heart and my King-_
  * His fire, as always, makes the cold Fingon carries retreat, and it takes his self-doubts with it because he cannot deny this love
  * But that brings it’s own regrets, too, well-worn familiar things. He has never been able to help Maedhros so easily, and he knows it is because his own shadows are thinner, and he carries them more lightly; but still he feels as though he does not love deeply enough, does not do enough, because otherwise surely Maedhros-
  * _You do too much,_ Maedhros tells him, watching the path of his thoughts. _Far too much, Kánya. So much peril-_
  * _You’re worth it and I’ll keep doing it-_
  * _Shh, shh, I know, Kánya, I know._ The melancholy is his words is heavy. _You save me. You do. It is not your fault that I have so much darkness about me, nor your responsibility_
  * _I would gladly take responsibility-_
  * **_Don’t!_** Maedhros demands. Fingon feels a jumbled background rush of fear and consequences and-
  * _No, calm, beloved, that is not that I would claim what you have done to be my fault,_ Fingon tells him. _I would not. But if we had been returned to our own place, I would have stood for you before the Valar and the Noldor and all the others. I would stand any scorn and any anger and I would take responsibility for you if that is what it took to have you free; and if there was punishment to be had I would share in it, if by doing so I could lessen yours_
  * _No, no, do not say so,_ Maedhros begs. _That would be a worse punishment than any that could be devised, that you should suffer alongside me when it did not have to be so-_
  * He doesn’t say, and Fingon doesn’t think he means to let it be known, but still he hears the dark thoughts curling through those words:
  * Was it not already happening? Was this not his punishment, to be forced to bear a happier world where he can have healing enough to keenly feel the forbiddance of further relief, because he will forever be living a lie and any happiness that can be had from seeing those he cares for again will turn bitter, for all other love but that which Fingon can offer him will be under false pretenses? That Fëanor and Nerdanel and their sons are mourning someone he has destroyed by his presence and cannot replace? That they are not _his_ family and any love and joy and happiness they have cannot be his, that he will forever be apart, that every moment he is here in the Halls he is proving that _they are doing better off without him_
  * And that he has pulled Fingon into this, as well, who had an unbroken family and people who were pleased by his presence and was already forgiven
  * Fingon kisses him, and tucks the thoughts he’s overheard discreetly away to think over, for whenever Maedhros is finally ready to speak of them



* * *

  * It isn’t hard to pick out Himring Hill, even without a fortress on it. The highest, bleakest, rockiest, steepest, windiest bit of the entire highlands doesn’t tower, it looms forebodingly
  * “Pleasant,” Curufinwë critiques. “ _There,_ really?”
  * “This is why you’re a smith and not a builder,” Carnistir says. Orolinda is looking at the hill with a practiced eye, and a touch diverts his attention to something she’s spotted
  * Tyelkormo is looking around, too. Írissë has ranged a bit away to investigate some lichen
  * “But what are you going to _eat,_ ammë?” he asks, aghast
  * “That’s what hinterlands are for,” Nerdanel answers. “Or central-lands, in this case. Our food is your brothers’ problem.”
  * “I still say it’s too cold to grow anything up here,” Curufinwë grumbles. Menelissë punches him in the shoulder
  * “This is why you’re a smith and not a farmer,” his wife tells him, joining in on the ribbing
  * “Everyone who’s coming, get moving,” Fëanáro orders testily. Years now, and he still hasn’t opened his mind, but Nerdanel has learned what strong physical sensations feel like through their closed marriage bond. He’s cold and hungry and grumpy because of it
  * They part with Curufinwë and Menelissë here, the two of them turning back to the large encampment they’ve established with Makalaurë and his people. For now, it’s somewhere to entrench for the winter; in the future, Estolad will be a reasonable way-town with a market for trading with Doriath
  * Assuming things go well, at least; but Nerdanel has resolved to live in optimism
  * The rest of them and their entourage urge their horses and carts up Himring Hill. It’s late summer, but in the highlands it already feels like waning autumn
  * They set up camp on the flat top of the hill, Carnistir and Orolinda and Tyelkormo and Írissë pitching their tents on either side of hers and Fëanáro’s. If it gets too cold, they have wool-canvas connections that can go up between them to create a sort of tent-house
  * Hopefully they’ll have better shelter by then, though; a proper walled command center to direct both the construction and the frontier
  * Their people get settled around them – Tyelko and Írissë’s hunters and scouts in one cluster, Carnistir and Orolinda’s builders and masons in another, Fëanáro’s loyal soldiers who will garrison Himring once it is a proper fortress around them all and his smiths arguing about initial forge placement
  * Nerdanel sees the miscellaneous House followers – hostlers and teamsters and cooks and the like – encamped before walking the perimeter
  * There’s lots of space atop this hill, and she counts square footage as she paces it out, eyeing exposed bedrock and a few scrubby trees. It’s barren now, but with walls to block the harshest winds, there’s a chance for gardens and evergreens to thrive in this alpine tundra
  * Rowan, she thinks, and larch and pine; there is basalm fir on the leewards side of the hills that might be convinced to accept transplant if someone can make a convincing case to them about the walls, and they could try importing juniper and holly
  * She comes across Carnistir scowling at a patch of ground about a quarter-way through her turn around the hill
  * “There’s water under here,” he announces. “I don’t know if there’s a spring or cave access, or if we’ll have to sink a well.”
  * There wasn’t much specific information on locations in the memory-dream, but Nerdanel knows how Aulë likes to order things, when it comes to rock. Morgoth has definitely disrupted the pattern in places, but they’re far enough away from Angband that things are probably still logical enough
  * Though if you account for wild volcanic activity-
  * “Travertine?” she asks him. “Basalt? Granite?”
  * Her son beckons her over. She marks what she’s already paced out and stands next to him. The area doesn’t seem particularly notable, but then there’s a momentary break in the wind-
  * Faint, and maybe a memory on the air of the northwest. But Carnistir sang for water and ended up here
  * Nerdanel hums, then whistles, then drones, trying to find the proper resonance. Carnistir joins her, recognizing the process, and together they find the right notes. It _has_ to be done with two people, one holding a low rumble and the other voicing a jumping, clear intonation. The hill and the water sing back, and they convince the ground to ripple apart
  * “Hah!” she says, satisfied, when she sticks her hand in the new hole and feels Steam starts rising, and the damp is mineral-sharp. “Go get the demarking cord, Carninkë; we’re going to have a _bathhouse._ ”



* * *

  * It’s hard building atop this hill, and it takes seasons. Turkafinwë and Írissë had departed after the first winter, leaving the preliminary walls before the first snowmelt to collect their cavalry from Curufinwë and Kánafinwë’s encampment before striking out to Lothlann and the Gap
  * Morifinwë and his wife stay longer, until after the curtain walls and the keep have risen to almost their full height. After the last of the apprentices from Aman have been graduated, at a minor feast one spring evening, the larger portion of their builders and masons leave with them for Mount Rerir to begin on the second great fortress of the north
  * Himring feels empty without them all. He still has Nerdanel, but once the walls are properly finished and what’s left is renovating the existing internal structures and laying paved roads, she decamps to Aglon and starts building fortifications there
  * It’s needful work. It’s why they’re up here at all
  * But Fëanáro spends glum, restless nights in Himring, lonely and cold, and wondering if his son had felt thusly, in his Himring. Or maybe he’d been too focused on the north to pay his own self any mind; or too hurt still from what he had already endured to care enough to make a positive change
  * He realizes, while his wife is gone but at least still within a day’s ride, that while he has a wide overview of Nelyafinwë’s life, he doesn’t know if day-to-day he’d been _all right_
  * He’d trusted his lieutenant to hold Himring in his absence, but Fëanáro has no idea who that person was. Were they friendly? Was it a simple working relationship? How had Nelyafinwë’s house staff related to him? Surely he’d had a seneschal, and a squire, and valet or some other trusted body-servant. What of his personal guard?
  * And who had been left, by the end of it all, and had they despised him? Or had they stayed out of care as much as loyalty and no other options?
  * The only people Fëanáro knows for certain his son had been friends with were Findekáno and Azaghâl King of Belegost, who isn’t King right now, not even Crown Princess. She hasn’t even been _born_ yet
  * It’s a desperately lonely life Fëanáro can envision for his son, with his beloved duty-bound to the other side of the continent and his only other friend halfway down it in the other direction. Himring-that-isn’t had held elves and humans, had had families with children, and he knows Nelyafinwë had experience with them from portion of the memory-dream on Elros and Elrond, but had he been anything but the grim Lord of the fortress to his garrison and their families, and the civilians who compromised the implied town?
  * It’s a lonely life he can imagine, stuck off in the least-forgiving part of East Beleriand
  * But he has Nerdanel, who returns once the fortifications in Aglon are finished, and Curufinwë comes up every few months with Tyelperinquar and Menelissë to visit and so the two of them can work in the forges together, despite the cold he bitterly complains of. Morifinwë send updates on a regular, reliable schedule; and Turkafinwë brings a cartload of cured and fresh meat at the end of every autumn as an excuse to check on them; and Kánafinwë comes every second Yestare to play court bard at the spring celebrations
  * And Ñolofinwë insists on keeping up a correspondence with him outside of strategic matters
  * _‘Turukáno has disappeared and I’m pretending to Father like I knew about this,’_ he complains, some fifty years after the first rising of the sun. The Noldor had built their principle settlements and fortresses mostly by starlight. Himring had been finished under such a sky, and Barad Eithel and Tol Sirion and Ñolofinwë and Anairë’s fortress of Pindost in Dorthonion. Only Mount Rerir had had it’s final two months under construction sped along by sunlight. _‘ **Why** must he found Gondolin?’_
  * _‘Why did he before?’_ Fëanáro writes back. _‘Ask him when you find him. Search the Echoriath.’_
  * He gets a reply some time later
  * _‘Still can’t find it, I think Turukáno must have made friends with a local Maia. You were right, though. There’s plenty of evidence of large-scale movement near and within the Pass of Anach, but we’ve had no influx of people into Dorthonion to match. I spent a month making a spectacle of myself riding around in the mountains yelling at my absentee son on the chance I was close enough for him to hear me, I’m sure you approve. At least we’ve moved Arakáno out of Ladros. He can hold the Pass of Sirion instead, though Father and I won’t be letting anything past the Fens of Serech to bother him if we can help it.’_
  * _‘Maybe you’re just bad at finding things, Ñolofinwë,’_ he dashes off, and thinks no more of it. He has a frontier to hold
  * Tyelkormo and Írissë’s cavalry repel a force of orcs in the autumn. Later, the same orcs try to force the Pass of Aglon. He rides out against them as Nerdanel commands the multitude of fortifications she made in the pass after finishing Himring, and he fights with his son and his niece the entire winter in Lothlann
  * _‘Your daughter has impressed the Sindar here enough that they’ve declared her their Lady,’_ he writes to Ñolofinwë in the spring. _‘They’ve adopted Tyelkormo too, even if he’s still only a Noldor Lord to them. They’re Tyelkormo the Silver and Aredhel the White now, and they have their own banner.’_
  * He includes a sketch for reference – their shared heraldry has only partial horizontal symmetry, not horizontal and vertical, marking it out from the classical Noldorin styles of Aman. Two blue-grey wolfhounds chase each other on a white field, with his own silver star between them, sending out rays in brilliance, bright-tipped arrows from the sky
  * _‘I’m going by Fëanor now,’_ he adds, because that’s also news. _‘I was in the field all winter, that’s the more efficient name to yell. But if Thingol tries banning Quenya I’m switching back.’_
  * The reply he gets is short
  * _‘Well, if you’re using yours. -Fingolfin’_
  * _‘And how are you explaining that?’_
  * _‘I don’t think Father cares what we chose, though he’s refusing to be called ‘Finu’. He’ll be Finwë and Elwë will be Elwë no matter if he calls himself ‘Elu’. Our youngest brother has asked about my extra Finwë – I told him it was because Golfin sounds wrong. He agreed Finarfin would be better than Arfin, but he’s staying Arafinwë.’_
  * _‘It does and it is,’_ Fëanor writes back. _‘Better to be Fingolfin and Finarfin than the other options, though they are both irredeemably presumptuous and in bad taste.’_
  * _‘You could always be Fincurufin,’_ his ingrate of a relative replies
  * _‘That’s an inexcusable linguistic travesty and I know you know better, how **dare** you even suggest that within a thousand leagues of me, **Golfin.** '  
_
  * _‘But you could be ‘Skilled Finwë’ with two ‘Finwë’s in your name! Twice as good as any old Finwë, truly you would be the greatest of the Noldor!’_
  * _‘You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are and I despise you.’_
  * _‘I’m exactly as funny as I think I am. Love you too.’_
  * Fëanor stares at that last long and hard before taking all his correspondence to his wife
  * “Are we fighting?” he asks as she reads. “Or is this an obscure ritualistic social mechanic?”
  * “You’re having a perfectly normal brotherly bicker,” Nerdanel informs him, absolutely delighted. “This is the best your relationship has ever been, go write him back.”



* * *

  * Dorthonion is a good land, even if he’s misplaced Turukáno somewhere in it. Anairë is just as annoyed by their middle son’s disappearance as he is, but at least they have fragrant pine breezes and sheltered valleys. Fingolfin has found this new land easy to love, despite everything
  * A hundred years after the rising of the sun, his father declares the Mereth Aderthad for early summer at the Pools of Ivrin, a great regathering of the scattered Noldor and the other Kindreds of the Eldar in celebration of friendship
  * They go, of course they do; and they share uncomfortable looks over the table the opening night of the feast with Fëanor and Nerdanel
  * Like the non-exile of the Noldor, this Mereth Aderthad has an expanded guest list. Elu Thingol has sent Prince Elmo again as a representative, and he’s brought the Marchwardens as guards and Artanis as family. Artanis is Galadriel now, and has brought Celeborn, Elmo’s grandson
  * Turukáno, Elenwë, and Itarillë haven’t shown, but that’s because no one could get an invitation to them. Anairë had spent their entire time passing the Echoriath loudly exclaiming about how she couldn’t _believe_ that Elenwë was allowing her husband to hide away from a party, and Itarillë has passed fifty by now and deserves a proper introduction into society- but to no avail. They’re all still missing
  * Galadriel and Celeborn aren’t married yet, it turns out. They’re here to use this opportunity to announce their engagement to the family. Finwë is characteristically delighted, and Indis gets genteelly tipsy with Elmo
  * They’re not the only notable family matter of the event: since last the House of Finwë have been gathered together, Angaráto’s son Artaresto has grown up, been given Nevrast, started calling himself Orodreth, and married a Noldor-Teleri woman who also uses her Sindarin name, Amrúwen. Their daughter Finduilas is nearing her majority, and one of Finrod’s people, Gwindir, very respectfully initiates a courtship with her under the watching eyes of the respectively-involved Arafinwean brothers. Finrod is alternately judged to either be more lenient or more intense in his surveillance of his man Gwindir on account of his and Amarië’s daughter Halnoriel having recently turned thirty, which can be a difficult stage of development for young elves. Caranthir and Erelind’s eldest daughter Luineth is fifteen, and spends the festival careening around underfoot whenever one of her great-grandfathers isn’t directly watching her. Her younger sister Míriwen is only four, and consumes her time with sleeping and laughing delightedly whenever any indulgent Eldar offers her flowers
  * Fingolfin sits a bit apart from everything and shares a wine carafe with Fëanor, who’s using the advantage of this position to track his numerous sons and their associated spouses and children
  * “Bets for Tyelperinquar?” Fingolfin offers. Galadriel and Celeborn and Finduilas and Gwindir have started a trend. They’re a week and a half into the Mereth Aderthad and it’s turning into a courtship festival
  * “He’s too young,” his brother broods
  * “He’s a hundred and thirty-three, Fëanor.”
  * “Just because he was full-grown at fifty-!”
  * “Beleriand is a perishable land, and Years of the Sun are short,” Fingolfin cuts him off. “We may have some three thousand years on us-”
  * “ _I_ have seen three thousand years; _you_ haven’t reached that yet.”
  * “Two hundred and one years of difference barely counts-”
  * “And twice that makes you so much wiser than Arafinwë then?”
  * “There is no limit of time nor age on love,” Fingolfin says loftily, ignoring him with dignity. “There’s no reason Tylepë shouldn’t find a spouse if he desires one, Caranthir and Amrod moved right quick once they’d come to these shores.”
  * “It won’t be Tyelperinquar,” Fëanor scowls into the milling crowd, and Fingolfin follows his line of sight
  * “Makalaurë, then?”
  * “You see that Sinda woman?” his brother demands. “If she even _is_ Sinda, she wandered over from further east a dozen years ago and he met her in Estolad, I’m more than half-certain she’s a Green-Elf for all that Curufinwë tells me she loves the town, Kánafinwë has been hanging off her every word ever since he laid eyes on her and she pays him no more attention than a tavern minstrel-!”
  * “That’s something for them to figure out-”
  * “She _kissed him!_ ” Fëanor continues, outraged. “And then she _kissed someone else!_ ”
  * Fingolfin sighs and drinks more wine, letting his brother rant on about Traditional Marriage
  * Neither of them realize until later that Indis and Míriel weren’t on either of their minds at any point, and that they departed amicably from the topic to watch Tyelkormo and Aredhel trounce everyone else at horse-racing together
  * (By the end of the year, they’re back in each other’s company at Estolad for Makalaurë and Leithind’s wedding. That night, Nerdanel grabs Anairë and drags her to their guest room to show her the scene she finds: her husband fast asleep on the bed under Fingolfin, who’d passed out after trying to match him drink-for-drink in celebration and hauling a weepy Fëanor back to his quarters)



* * *

  * It’s a long time before Maedhros says anything about his dark thoughts on this new world
  * Their good periods don’t always sync up, but Fingon is glad that this isn’t one of the times when their bad ones do, because he would be incapable of handling this if it was
  * It starts out innocuously enough. They’re in one of their group conversations, the type that mingles Thaladis and those who have since followed her out of the dark with Fingon’s small group of close friends. Losereg the Green-Elf has been describing their wanderings in Middle-Earth during their life, and manages to be so wry about their death-by-orc-ambush that Thaladis even laughs with them about their indignant surprise at being so caught. It’s a good moment
  * Maedhros is smiling too, as amused as the rest of them, though the expression turns more proud and encouraging as Thaladis strikes out into fraught territory and begins haltingly telling a story from her own life, light on details like names and locations and an overarching plot, but attentively listened to all the same
  * That smile slips, though, as the story winds down, and Thaladis glances over at him for reassurance. After she looks away to pay attention to one of the bright-Halls Sinda, the smile is gone entirely
  * Fingon leans over
  * _Maedhros?_
  * They silently excuse themselves. Those who’ve come from the dark Halls never question such things as sudden mood changes or rapid retreats, and the others are used to the way they’ll sometimes withdraw to let Thaladis and the others find their own strength
  * _I am proud of her, that she can think on and share from her time before,_ Maedhros says once they are alone. _I wish that for all of them, but-_
  * That’s when Fingon realizes what this conversation is
  * _If we told anyone,_ he says. _I’d pick Thaladis and your other friends from the dark. They’d understand the best_
  * _Would they?_ Maedhros asks. _I **chose** my evil, Fingon, and I did it under no duress!_
  * _I think love and worry-_
  * _It was wrong!_
  * _It was, but that doesn’t mean people can’t be sympathetic_
  * _They should not be,_ Maedhros says. _Not with what has been that can now never be, because we are here_
  * It takes Fingon a minute to parse that he’s not talking about the evil deeds and tragic occurrences that their family and the Noldor as a whole have so far avoided, but of what _has_ happened, and the people those events have created
  * _They are better off than they were-_
  * _But what has become of those yet to be born?_ Maedhros despairs. _What of Bëor and Haleth and Amlach and Andreth and Hador and Beren and Tuor, of Azaghâl, of Gil-Galad, of Nimloth and Celebrían, of Dior and Eärendel and Elwing and Elros and Elrond? Do the Edain we remember yet exist somewhere beyond Arda, and may return after the end of days only to find those family and kin they have left behind are gone as though they never existed? Have we destroyed the children of our kin who have been? And for what! More happily could I remain for eternity in the Void than be saved at such cost!_
  * _I cannot believe Eru would be so cruel,_ Fingon says after a moment
  * _I can,_ Maedhros says
  * _I think,_ Fingon says, feeling out his path as he tries to walk upon it. _I think, that in part it may be beyond our ken. Our people left for Beleriand, did they not? Despite the differences? What else might to come to pass in unexpected ways?_
  * _Then still by our returning we have destroyed countless innocents, and caused them to be replaced by imitations_
  * _Not imitations,_ Fingon says. _Just them, if things were different. Who but Eru is to say if we have not simply left behind us but one permutation of the Song, and entered another?_
  * _And left our kin and companions to believe that we are both lost forever to the Void?_ Maedhros counters bitterly. _Better that Eru return us properly than to this! Better that you were returned to life unsuccessful after a virtuous attempt to save one undeserving, better that I be truly condemned and drug before all I have ever hurt to be had vengeance on, better that we be sundered forever! Better than to think that I have left my father screaming endlessly and my mother and brothers bereft and believing me undone by the Void, than to think that I have caused your family to believe the same of you!_
  * _Would you have returned if it meant facing those you have wronged?_ Fingon asks
  * _Those I killed deserve to have what they will of me_
  * _And if it meant facing the judgement of the Valar?_
  * Maedhros says nothing
  * Fingon is about to continue to a new topic when Maedhros finally answers
  * _No,_ he says. _I know what I have done wrong, and I would let the ones I have harmed punish me for it, and I would not seek the Silmarils knowing the Oath has ever been void; but still I would not face the Valar. Námo has been kind and forgiving here, but these Halls have never known the presence of the Kinslain_
  * _Well what is the **difference!**_ Fingon exclaims. _If you would submit yourself to all others and not eschew their judgement!_
  * _The worst any those I have slain could do is kill me again, and draw out the process_
  * Fingon reaches across him for his free hand
  * _The Valar are not all Sauron and Morgoth, Maedhros_
  * _I know,_ Maedhros says. _And I **know** you favor him, Kánya; but think of what Manwë wrought, when he declared Morgoth repentant and let him walk free! Think of what happened to Beleriand! Terrible are the things they mistakenly wright, even with good intent, for they have such power it cannot be otherwise! What could they do, when they begin with wrath? Easier could I condemn myself to the Void, Kánya, easier could I make a Kinslayer of myself four times over and choose evil even as good was offered freely, than could I- than **can** I!- trust the mercy of the Valar!_
  * Fingon holds him tight and tries not to cry
  * _There you are, then,_ he tells Maedhros. _You could not remain where you were and you could not bear to return to where you had been, so Eru gave you a new destination_
  * _My existence is not worth Ages of lives!_ Maedhros spits, bitter and vicious. _Even **you** cannot claim that, Findekáno! And Eru is no source of love nor kindness nor justice, if **He** claims so!_
  * Fingon doesn’t really remember what, exactly, he said to Eru Ilúvatar. He knows he asked for them both to be returned, and is relatively sure that they spoke of other things. All he knows is that he was listened to, and that he is certain that the nature of their return has all the answers he can’t remember asking for
  * _Maybe it’s not **about us,** Maedhros,_ he says, grieving for his love’s fear and inability to trust even when Fingon has told him what transpired after he was lost, and frustrated that Maedhros is still afraid and that his pride is a twisted kind that holds not his accomplishments but his failures higher than those of everyone else’s _. I mean, **yes,** it’s a **little** about us, we’re only safe and this has only happened because of what we chose- but your father and brothers have sworn no Oath; and our grandfather is alive; and our families are not sundered across a sea and by Exile; and the Noldor left Beleriand in peace and unity; and the elves of Beleriand and the Edain no longer stand alone against Morgoth. Already does the world have less evil and pain within it! Had we not been returned as we were, this would not be! And maybe one day the evil things it seems we have avoided will come to pass – maybe your father will be consumed with desire for the Silmarils above all else! Maybe he and your brothers will swear themselves to Everlasting Darkness! Maybe one will be pried from Morgoth’s crown, and be the downfall of Doriath and the Havens of Sirion, and maybe the House of Fëanor will be despised; and maybe even will they all die and Makalaurë will fade upon the sea and be never seen again amongst our people! But **you will not be part of it,** and so still there will be less evil in the world than there was! If **nothing else,** Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol, there has been no Kinslaying at Alqualondë and no crossing of the Helcaraxë, and surely your existence is worth **that!** _
  * Maedhros leans into him, and Fingon struggles with himself until he begins to calm
  * _I could gladly die to prevent a Kinslaying,_ Maedhros says eventually, in nearly a whisper. _I suppose that I can live to prevent one, too, and the crossing of the Grinding Ice by you and yours; though I would account the price demanded poor and the lives saved cheaply bought, and I am not sure that I can bring myself to believe that some greater harm has not been done to the future that now shall never be our past_




	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite chapters of the fic everybody

  * There’s a somewhat-major attempted incursion into Hithlum five years after the Mereth Aderthad, but Finwë beats the orc army handily, and never really calls for help
  * A hundred years later Anairë has rendezvoused with Tyelkormo and Aredhel where Lothlann becomes Ard-Galen. They are exterminating werewolves together, and very suddenly, she realizes that somehow, somewhen, the Long Peace has settled. These werewolves are the worst threat that the northern frontier has faced in decades
  * Tyelkormo whoops and shouts encouragement at Huan, who is overpowering the last of the cornered monsters, not noticing his aunt’s sudden unease
  * Anairë is still wracking her memory, trying to pinpoint when the orc raids had begun to taper off and when they had stopped expecting semi-regular tests of their defenses, as she leads her warband back into Pindost’s walls
  * She brings it up to her husband, who becomes just as perturbed as he tries to recall when the change had happened, and they both realize that they don’t actually know how long the Long Peace had _lasted_
  * They write to Fëanor and Nerdanel, who agree to come to Pindost to talk
  * When they arrive, they have a surprise with them
  * Idril
  * Tyelperinquar is along too, being very courteous to his long-lost cousin the Princess of Gondolin, though she seems a bit miffed about the thoroughness of his manners
  * They barely get Fëanor and Nerdanel alone before the Lord of Himring starts explaining
  * “Curufinwë found her in Nan Elmoth,” he says. “He was there because he had this antagonistic friendship with the Lord there, he’s a very accomplished smith, created a whole new kind of metal-”
  * Anairë thinks hard about shaking him. Fëanor sees her look, clears his throat, and gets back on track
  * “Anyhow, Curufinwë was visiting to conduct some invited professional espionage and people were talking about the Lord Eöl’s new lady, so he asked after her, and got her name, and went to see her, and-”
  * “Curvo punched him out for trying to ensorcel himself a wife,” Nerdanel cuts in. “Took Itarillë, rode back to Estolad with all haste, and sent a formal denouncement to Thingol about his vassal-lord using dark enchantments. Queen Melian is dealing with it personally.”
  * “She’s fine,” Fëanor picks back up. “I checked, and Curufinwë checked, _and_ Kánafinwë checked. There’s nothing dark lingering about her, and he wanted her to believe her feelings had no origin but of her own heart and for her to nurture them herself, so the enchantments were small and not very powerful, though subtle, in their way. She’s seemed far more annoyed by the entire thing than anything else, but you’d have to ask Tyelperinquar for better insight, he’s been helping her learn about how the rest of the world lives.”
  * “But why isn’t she with her parents!” Fingolfin exclaims in distress. “Did something-”
  * “Apparently Gondolin is extremely dull, and The Valley of Dreadful Death sounded _‘exciting’_.”
  * Anairë shares a horrified look with her husband
  * “ _This time,_ ” Fingolfin says grimly. “I am going to _stay_ in those mountains until I _find him,_ so I can tell him how _not_ to raise a child so ignorant and stifled!”
  * They stop for food and drink to clear the air of the latent horror of such a near-miss at tragedy and disaster. It’s a while until they feel ready for lighter topics
  * “I haven’t been able to infer how long the Peace was supposed to be,” Fëanor says, fingers drumming on the table, when they do pick back up. “The only information we were given is that between-”
  * He hesitates, and changes his phrasing. Fingolfin is mostly used to conversing with him through letters now, and though he’s had long experience of his brother guarding his words more since this all began, it’s mildly surprising every time he hears Fëanor backtrack, because he never used to
  * “That before Fingon was High King,” Fëanor says instead. “They won some great battle, held the Mereth Aderthad, and Turukáno and Írissë disappeared into Gondolin. We can deduce that the first defeat of Glaurung happened in there somewhere, but there was no context for the timing of it. We’ve been on the lookout for dragons-”
  * “As much as we can,” Nerdanel says. “Considering all we know about them is that they come with Balrogs.”
  * “-but we haven’t found any signs yet. I do believe that Father is looking to pull some kind of assault together, however. He’s been asking me the kinds of questions you ask when considering supply lines.”
  * “Are you prepared for a direct battle?” Anairë asks, thinking on the state of Dorthonion’s army. It’s not terrible, but they’re not quite at offensive-war level
  * “All of mine and Nerdanel’s family is sitting behind our frontier,” Fëanor says, insulted. “ _Of course_ we’re prepared!”
  * “Who’s holding Himring for you while you’re here?”
  * “Turkafinwë. He doesn’t favor doing it, but he _can_ run a fortress as well as a mobile military force. I’m going to skip Kánafinwë in the succession.”
  * That brings the room to surprised silence. Anairë’s not sure how his mind jumped so immediately from interim fortress command to inheritance when the latter was far from everyone else’s thoughts
  * Worse, _‘the succession’_ has every opportunity to be an explosive subject. Her husband and his brother have had a much better relationship since taking up their fortresses, and she doesn’t want to see that broken
  * “It’s obvious Kánafinwë doesn’t want it,” Fëanor continues. Anairë can’t tell if he’s oblivious to the tension, or choosing to ignore it. She’s not sure which would be worse. “And before, he wasn’t very good at it. In the right circumstances, he’d be fine. But those circumstances are peacetime in Valinor with no serious or persistent tensions among the people, and if the succession ever triggers in that kind of an environment he’d be too wrecked by the troubles that would have had to happen to be of use, at least at the beginning. He’s the kind of Lord who would thrive best with a townhouse and an income and purview over cultural events.”
  * He pauses, and makes a face.
  * “He should be in Gondolin,” he concludes. “He should be in Gondolin, and Curufinwë should be with Mahtan, and Tyelperinquar should be Lord of Nedhelion out of Estolad.”
  * “You’re sure he won’t feel slighted?” Fingolfin asks delicately, and _apparently_ this is the conversation they’re having now
  * “He won’t like that I say it to him,” Fëanor admits. “But he really is suited to be the second son. Terrible for the head role, but well enough with a little authority and nothing he can mess up too badly.”
  * Anairë is staring at Nerdanel across the table and the silence stretches
  * Fëanor hadn’t sounded snide or malicious, but he _can’t_ not be-
  * “Turkafinwë won’t be happy about it either, but he’ll do well, and he has Aredhel,” Fëanor says, apparently to fill the silence, and maybe he actually _is_ only commenting on Makalaurë and not dressing up insults to her husband
  * “Though I may have to insist they get married,” is what he says next, and-
  * _“What?”_ Anairë demands. Another sharp change of conversational topic is appreciated, but she’s not sure she likes this one, either
  * “I know we’ve all been ignoring it,” he says. “But At some point it becomes ridiculous.”
  * “Do you know something about my daughter that I don’t?”
  * “No?”
  * “Aredhel and Tyelko-”
  * “They’ve been living together for nearly two centuries, and you know they’ve only gotten closer since-”
  * For all that they’ve had so much time to come to terms with it, for all that they’re ostensibly having this meeting to discuss memories of a world they’ve never lived in, the deaths of their eldest sons are still too much to talk about directly
  * “Since,” Fëanor summarizes, to avoid saying anything more specific. “I don’t approve of any of my sons living in sin, but I _especially_ will not have it from my heir.”
  * Anairë fists her hands on the table to prevent herself from slapping him. Tears threaten. He _is_ insulting them. They’d been doing so well-
  * “We’ll be back,” Nerdanel promises darkly, and pulls her husband from the room



* * *

  * “How dare you,” she says, once she’s found them an empty room. “They invite us into their home-”
  * “I haven’t done anything,” he says defensively
  * “Don’t lie to me-”
  * “I haven’t!” Fëanor insists. “If I was to be unkind, I would remind them that Eöl had _Aredhel,_ the last time around!”
  * This throws Nerdanel
  * “Turkafinwë is much better-” her husband stops, noticing her expression. “Oh. I’d thought-”
  * “When did-” Nerdanel says, trying to decide the most likely spot for that to have come up in the memory-dream
  * “We’d all been going over it so carefully, trying to find a timeframe,” Fëanor apologizes. “I hadn’t realized you hadn’t noticed. Do you think-”
  * “No,” Nerdanel’s certain of that. “If they had, they would have been furious when the name came up, not worried about Turukáno and Elenwë. How did you realize?”
  * “It was brief,” her husband says. “From when he was in the Halls. He stayed with Aredhel because she didn’t judge him about who he loved, and he considered himself the better off of the pair of them, because Eöl hadn’t actually loved her. Which implies that she loved him, at least once, and we know what he was trying to do with Idril, and then after they shared that house in the woods away from Tirion. We know why he was isolating himself, but why was _she,_ if she wasn’t also hiding from others? The only other person she ever seemed to interact with was Oromë. Eöl succeeded in that world, because that Doriath wouldn’t have anything to do with the Noldor and particularly not with our sons, so Curufinwë and Turkafinwë would have stayed well away from Nan Elmoth, so there was no one to catch what he was doing. He got away with it, with Aredhel.”
  * His expression sobers
  * “Because I broke everything,” he adds. “And I can’t fix it. But Eöl won’t hurt anyone else here, and Curufinwë saw to that; and we can give Aredhel a better husband.”
  * “Do we even know if they love each other that way?” Nerdanel asks, not sure how to address Fëanor’s guilt. “They’ve always been friends, and they’ve had good reason to bond. Shared- trauma.”
  * “We would have said the same thing about Nelyo and Findekáno,” Fëanor points out. “People _did_ think that, about them. I’m relatively certain that was the implication, anyway. Elrond obviously knew. Kána- Maglor likely did, by the end. I believe it likely that Aredhel knew, though I don’t know if she was ever explicitly told. But I don’t think there was anyone else.”
  * “That Fëanor and Fingolfin-”
  * “I know what I’m like angry,” Fëanor says unhappily. “And there were implications in the contrasting with Fingolfin. That version of me was furious about one of my brother’s children claiming authority over any of mine, not their relationship otherwise. He didn’t know, and I don’t think that Fingolfin knew, or you, or anyone else in the family. Gil-Galad didn’t know, and no one confided it to him as a secret, and if there had been any rumors about it at all I don’t see why they wouldn’t have been mentioned.”
  * Nerdanel doesn’t like that she thinks he’s right. They’d had a long look at the effects of Fingon not being able to speak of his love in Aman, and it pains her to think of Maedhros, bereft and unable to properly grieve in Beleriand because he wouldn’t tell any of his brothers
  * “If you didn’t know that about Aredhel,” her husband interrupts her thoughts. “Then why are we here?”
  * “Because Anairë was about to strangle you, Fëanáro, for everything you had to say on the faults and proper place of second sons, and for implying that Aredhel is morally corrupting Tyelkormo.”
  * “I-” Fëanor started to say, then thought better of it at her expression. “I really was only talking about Kánafinwë, and I was critiquing _Turkafinwë’s_ ”
  * “Which is only _his_ business and not yours,” Nerdanel reprimands. “And unless you _do_ know something that Anairë doesn’t, they aren’t involved that way.”
  * “I remain unconvinced,” he says. “But even if they aren’t- they make each other better, you know they do. They’re excellent together, and if I do die here and Turkafinwë has to take things up, the best way for them to stay together would be to marry. It’s the easiest way to get her legitimate authority on par with his, and it would prevent rumors of impropriety, and they could have heirs, if Aredhel cared to. If she didn’t, we have grandchildren for Turkafinwë to choose from. Or Morifinwë or Curufinwë, I suppose, if it things fall that way.”
  * “None of that is reason enough to marry.”
  * “They _do_ love each other,” he argues. “Do you really think he’ll ever love someone else like he does her?”
  * “He’s sworn to Lord Oromë.”
  * “They parted as well as your father and Aulë did; and it’s not actually _required_ to be unmarried to be close with the Valar. It’s just statistically probable because marriage and service are both intensive commitments. _Even if_ Turkafinwë only loves Aredhel as his best friend or even as a sister, marriage would still bring her into the family officially.”
  * “And what if _Aredhel_ doesn’t want to?” Nerdanel asks him, because more than anything that’s the glaring fault in his reasoning-
  * “Why _wouldn’t_ she?”
  * Her husband has admirable qualities to go with his faults, but like them all, his worst behavior always comes from his strengths going too far
  * He loves her, and his sons, and his mother and father; and he cannot fathom that anyone else would not also think they are as wonderful and amazing as _he_ feels they are
  * And when he can, the only other option in his mind is nothing so benign as merely mild dislike or simple disinterest. They _must_ feel as strongly as he does about them, but in the opposite direction. Hatred, disdain, jealousy- whatever the flavor, something obviously destructive and threatening
  * “Because people can love each other and not want to get married,” Nerdanel says. “Or not love each other in the right way to marry.”
  * “Nelyafinwë absolutely would have. The politics-”
  * “He was so _hurt,_ Fëanáro. You know how he thought of himself. Even without you and your brother and your father and all of it, even if he’d abandoned that damnable oath or if he’d fulfilled it without drawing swords on anyone but Morgoth and his forces, _you remember_ how he felt about Angband, and there wasn’t much of Alqualondë but I’m sure you can imagine – I have! – how he had to have felt about that, afterwards! At least after Doriath and the Havens, he could tell himself he was trying to save you and the others!”
  * This isn’t something they talk about. It’s something they _should,_ maybe, probably; but right after the dream-memory it had all been leaving for Beleriand and becoming accustomed to it all, and then they had been in Beleriand and there were things to do, to build, to fight-
  * “They do love each other, they do,” Nerdanel says. It could be either Maedhros and Fingon or Tyelkormo and Aredhel, and she doesn’t know which. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll choose to be together that way. Or that they should.”
  * “If you love someone you should ”
  * Nerdanel clenches her teeth and tells herself, unconvincingly, that apparently he hadn’t meant to be insulting to Fingolfin and Anairë either
  * After a moment of her tense silence, Fëanor’s expression changes from conviction to confusion to open dismay
  * “No, I-”
  * “It wasn’t you,” Nerdanel says, resisting the urge to stare at the wall or the ceiling instead of looking at him. “It never happened, and it was the other you.”
  * “Didn’t it?” Fëanor asks, bleakly, _guiltily_. That, she can feel through the closed marriage bond, like she can heat from behind a closed forge door. “It happened to Nelyafinwë and Findekáno. They lived it. They’re- not _here,_ but- they’re a part of this world and so all that is in the past of this world, even if we haven’t directly experienced it. It _did_ All of that, I did. I wouldn’t do those same things now, but only because I know what came to pass because of them. I’m no more _‘not that Fëanor’_ than I am _‘not Fëanáro at age fifty’_.”
  * If he gives her a moment to think she can explain why that’s not true-
  * “I did all that, _melitsanya,_ ” he says quietly. It’s pleading, almost. “I hurt everyone, and it all just kept going, and it never truly got better. I hurt I _left,_ and I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”
  * “I left first,” Nerdanel reminds him, bitter and angry and feeling oddly broken inside, because while she’s certain she’s not _that_ Nerdanel, she also knows a truth that’s a corollary to what her husband is claiming and she loathes it: that she is not so different from the Nerdanel of that-which-isn’t
  * “I don’t know when we started falling apart,” she says. “But it had to have been before that Exile to Formenos, otherwise why wouldn’t I go with you? It was a stupid thing to do, the worst thing you’d done yet, but I should I have gone if even just to yell at you! Or I could have visited to do it, if I was truly too angry to live with you! It was an exile _for you,_ everyone else was free to come and go as they pleased! But I stayed away _from our sons!_ Twelve years of the Trees or a hundred and fifteen years of the Sun- whichever way you count it, I had given up on you and yet I did nothing for the sake of them. And when they returned from so long with you, they were so quick to swear-”
  * “That’s not your-”
  * _“I remember,”_ Nerdanel says, fiercely, in an attempt to hold back her tears. “You’re not the only one who has spent so long going over the scraps we have, looking for answers, who has then found something – when he thought of you, our Maitimo, he thought that you had been so broken already before your father’s death and I _knew_ you were someone who would threaten violence over perceived slights and threats _and I left them with you anyway._ ”
  * “They were all grown,” Fëanor says, though it sounds like it hurts for him to say it. He reaches for her. “They could choose-”
  * “Oh, so it’s none of your fault, then?” she snaps, voice harsh with the tears she can’t hold in. His hands drop, and he retreats into himself.
  * That was crueler than she meant
  * “So it’s _their_ fault?” Nerdanel rephrases. “That when they decided to go with you I doubt you told them _‘no’_ , and that I don’t think I asked them to stay? That they loved you when I didn’t? When I’d given up? When you felt threatened and attacked and betrayed and they loved you too much to do anything that would increase those fears, that would exacerbate the madness?”
  * “No, it’s _my fault,_ ” her husband says. “Because I shouldn’t have lost control of myself like that! Because I should have been more critical of what other people were saying! Simply accepting a precept because it agrees with your own views and ideas, and not because you have tested it, is a _basic_ logical flaw and I _know better than that!_ ”
  * There’s a tapping on the door. After a moment, Fingolfin sticks in head in
  * “We can hear you yelling,” he informs them. There’s no censure or judgement in his voice, and Nerdanel hopes that it isn’t just him being diplomatic. “For what it’s worth, I’m sure if Maedhros were here he’d be arguing that it’s _his_ fault, so I don’t think any of you are capable of being reasonable about this.”
  * “And _you_ can?” Fëanor says, sounding like he’s ready to start the kind of fight Nerdanel had brought him in here to tell him off for
  * “No,” Fingolfin answers. “I don’t think this is the kind of situation where blame or fault can be divided. The outcome was far worse than the sum of its parts. All arguing about it does is make you feel worse. Anairë and I have argued about my leaving for stupid reasons and her staying because she was infuriated by my choices, too.”
  * “It wasn’t-”
  * Fingolfin steps into the room and closes the door behind him
  * “Yes, it was, I was _very_ stupid,” he says. “I was far too prideful and stubborn to be a good leader for my people, much less a good husband or father. I should have turned around with Arafinwë- and if the shame over Alqualondë was too much, or the Valar decreed we could not return to our former places for our sins, I should have led them to found a new city away from everyone else! It’s not like we didn’t have information about parts of Aman outside of Valinor! You spent enough time exploring it! But instead I took them across the Helcaraxë!”
  * “You had better reasons than I-”
  * “No I _didn’t,_ you _idiot!_ ” Fingolfin says. “ _I was following you!_ To prove a point! That I should have known was hopeless _long_ before Alqualondë, much less after the burning of the ships! Even if you’d still been alive by the time I’d arrived, you wouldn’t have accepted me! You _still_ wouldn’t have trusted me! You say love cannot be only words, it must be proved? Then why is nothing I ever do good enough!”
  * That seems to be more than he meant to say, or else he just wanted the last word, because he spins suddenly on his heel and storms out
  * Fëanor is tense and still in a way Nerdanel knows well, but hasn’t seen in- it can’t really have been since before they’d arrived in Beleriand, can it be?
  * “Don’t follow him,” she orders, and with that permission her husband bursts back into motion, striding out of the room with frantic energy, trying to outrun his feelings



* * *

  * Fingon had made fair points about the good turn of the Noldor in this world
  * But Maedhros’s doubts are loud, and his guilt as strong as it has ever been, and peace of mind is hard to come by
  * He paces the Halls, the light and the dark and the dim, for long stretches of time. Fingon knows what troubles him, and never detains him for longer than Maedhros can manage to not be consumed by his thoughts; Thaladis and Losereg and their other friends worry, but only those two ever truly approach him, rather than meeting his gaze in acknowledgement when he strides past
  * In Thaladis’s case, it is braving his evident temper, and a kind of understanding. She doesn’t know what is troubling him, he hasn’t shared enough of his past for her to begin to guess correctly; but she knows guilt and self-blame and bitter anger. More than once she matches pace with him and they go along together in silence, each keeping their thoughts to themselves, Thaladis staying the course even when his emotions radiate out from him and send all others fleeing
  * With Losereg, it’s another manifestation of the same irrepressibility of personality that led a Green-Elf of the Far East to wander far enough west to be ambushed and killed by a group of orcs and then laugh about it afterwards in Halls they had never known of in life. Every time Maedhros comes through a room or corridor containing them, they smile and drop right in next to him, happily carrying on a one-sided conversation until they reach the next area and Losereg drops off with a cheerful farewell, only to continue right from where they’d left off the next time they encounter each other
  * Maedhros has good friends. He knows this, but has no appreciation in him at the moment
  * In some lonely part of the Halls, he has a bout of exhaustion, and slides down a wall to collapse, seated, on the floor, head in his hand
  * The quiet deepens with the presence of another
  * _If you are troubled,_ Námo says. _You need merely request my sister_
  * Maedhros has been here long enough, and is a strange case enough, to know more of the ways of the Halls than most others
  * _If your sister could help, my Lord,_ he says, not looking up. _You would have sent her instead of coming yourself_
  * The spectral rustle of the Vala’s enveloping cloak is a quiet acknowledgement of that truth
  * _Do you know?_ Maedhros asks. _Do you, in your wisdom, have even an inkling of how this has transpired? If my return has devastated Arda so?_
  * _I do not know the how,_ Námo says. _Besides that it is the work of Eru. As for the fate of the Arda you remember, it exists still_
  * This is a fragile and trembling hope that Námo has given him, but Maedhros is more capable of seizing such things now
  * _You’re certain?_
  * _It must be so,_ Námo says. _For it is in the nature of Eru only to create fëar, not to annihilate them. You were saved from the Void; somewhere, the Arda you know and those you left behind exist also_
  * _That is less certainty than comforts me_
  * The Lord of Mandos is silent for some time, until-
  * _The Song is a Song of Power,_ he says finally, startling Maedhros with both the renewed conversation and its topic. _It is also only a marginally useful metaphor used to explain cosmology to the Children of Eru. We could just as truthfully have described it as a great collaborative city-building project where Melkor kept dumping ink over the blueprints and then smashing finished buildings; but when we were first attempting to explain Eä to your ancestors, they only knew of huts and tents. Architecture was a bit beyond them_
  * That… was wry understatement. The Doomsman of the Valar is using _humor_ with him
  * Never in all his existence before this moment could Maedhros have expected this from the Halls
  * _But language they knew intimately,_ Námo continues. _And rhythm and tone they understood. The Song is far beyond anything you could conceive of as music. Even if you were to witness the greatest art of voice that will ever be within Arda, you could not come close to comprehending the merest reflection of the truth of what the Song is. The best I can describe it to you is that the Song is the opposite of the Void, but even that is untruthful in the extreme. It is a vast and intricate thing, and even I who participated in it and who am the most wise of those bound to Arda in the nature of it do not know the full extent. Perhaps it is infinite, and I know even less than I expected. There are other worlds besides Arda, I know; but Arda is the one I gave myself to, and so I have no knowledge of the others. Given that you are here, some of these other worlds must be very similar to this one- and so, what you have left is there still_
  * _But how can you be both here and there and not know of it?_ Maedhros worries. _Are there **two** Morgoths? What if one finds his way to another world? How can there be two fëar that are obviously distinct but still the same? What has happened to the eldest sons of Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë of **this** Arda?_
  * Námo places a quelling hand between his shoulders
  * _Do not distress yourself with whys and hows when there are no answers to be had from our own reasonings, Maitimo Nelyafinwë. It is a great Mystery of Eru’s – though I am certain he has taken the princes of this Arda in hand and that they are well, though we do not know how or where_
  * _I cannot have such faith,_ Maedhros admits
  * _I can,_ Námo plainly
  * Maedhros sighs. He’s found more understanding than he’d ever though possible in the Halls, and with their Lord, but there is a limit to everything, always. He is but an elf, and there are vast gulfs between them
  * _No,_ Námo says. _It is not that. Not long ago that I would have said the same as you_
  * That doesn’t make sense at all. A Vala, one of the makers of creation, who has known Eru Ilúvatar personally, the Doomsman of the Valar and Lord of Mandos-
  * _Just so,_ Námo tells him. _And therein lies the problem. Tell me, Maitimo Nelyafinw_ _ë- who was the first, whom Melkor harmed?_
  * It feels like a trick question, and though he _knows_ he is safe a frisson of fear passes through him at the thought of not giving the desired answer
  * Maedhros wants to say it was one of the Unbegotten at Cuiviénen, but Morgoth and the Valar had been fighting for long before then, and he can’t remember exactly what the stories say, only that the land was raised up and then thrown down-
  * _One of the Maiar?_ he hazards, thinking of broken Beleriand with poisoned rivers and drowned mountains and burned forests
  * _Melkor brought evil into being the first moment he tried to wrest away what is right and good and common into only his own creation and possession,_ Námo says. _All pain and fear and suffering in the world comes ultimately from that singular covetousness, and ere the Song was even finished has Nienna wept for the lost and the broken. His first victim is my sister; and **never** will I forgive him for it_
  * It feels so remote, to try to conceive of the time of the Song; and even more unreal to think of a time before it had finished, before it had _begun,_ a time when Nienna did not weep and was not defined by suffering-
  * But that old, contained rage over hurt to family is so very familiar
  * _Into this world she came out of pain and pity and only thirdly love, and there is **nothing** I nor my brother can do to help her, we who are meant to be Lords of the F_ _ëa and repair what is broken,_ Námo continues, words tinged with ancient bitterness. _Grim they call me and Grim I have been, for what else was I to become, when my sister can take but the barest joys of this world we sang into existence out of love and my own Halls and purpose bring me the hurt and the broken and the lost and bereaved in endless streams? When Varda and Manw_ _ë may sit upon Taniquetil and care for the far stars and the untouchable sky and the birds who fly away; when Yavanna and Aul_ _ë have the renewal of the green things and the cycles of the rocks and the long ages of the land that cannot die; when Orom_ _ë hunts and Vána laughs and Tulkas sports and Nessa dances and all revel in life and beauty and each other; when Ulmo has his vast seas where no Child of Eru dwells and Vair_ _ë records the passing of Time from her distant chambers; when Est_ _ë and Írmo soothe the body and soul and chase off darkness; but I! I **live in it,** and Nienna with me! Here I dwell and here imprisoned are those who are full of hatred and cruelty and evil, who have no love in them and would strike me down if it would mean their freedom to wreak harm amongst the living; here remain those who weep and scream and are tormented by their pains and griefs; here leave all those who have love and joy and kindness and gentle hearts, and swiftly once they have attained them! None others see the brokenness of Arda Marred as do I but my sister, and even **she** is spared this, my endless duty to **repair** Eru’s Children! To make souls whole and hale in a world that harms them! A world that **Eru let stand!**_
  * Maedhros has never particularly wished to experience a Vala yelling before, and now that he has, he would prefer to avoid it in the future. The Halls tremble with the force of Námo’s fury and discontent
  * _Long have I doubted the Song,_ Námo continues after some long moments of regaining his composure. _That it is Good and that it is Right and most of all that it is Just. I am Judge and so judge I must, and ever since the Awakening of the Firstborn has the love with which I entered Arda grown more distant from me; for Eru Father of All is He named, but what manner of father lets stand danger and suffering when it is in His power to mend it, and then devises **children** to send into it? Were a parent of an elf to be brought before me thus, I would judge them deserving of punishment and forbiddance of their children_
  * _But-_ Maedhros falters. He has found himself in a very strange place, a place he doesn’t want to be in and one he’s not even sure he agrees with. It’s one thing for _him_ to say he does not believe in the innate goodness or mercy or love of creation, and quite another for one of the Great Lords of the Valar to say so
  * He finds that he _does_ still have scraps of wishful faith and hope, and that against all his other feelings and experiences and earlier words, Námo _agreeing_ with him is making him hold these newfound remnants tighter against the dark
  * _Melkor twisted the Song, it is true,_ Námo says. _But I do not see why we could not have **tried again**_
  * Many accusations of unholiness have been thrown at the House of Fëanor. There have been charges of sacrilege and of sin and of swearing in ill-faith
  * But if there was ever a heresy or blasphemy spoken in all of Arda, surely this is the worst- that Arda _should not be_
  * _Oh,_ he hears the Lord of Mandos breathe, though none here have body nor breath. The quiet deepens, and spectral grey cloth falls softly around him as a twilit mist, and close comforting darkness descends as Maedhros is gently enveloped. _No, Eruhín, my anger is not at you. That is a mistake I had been making, ere you and yours came to my Halls and your cousin told me of what he knows of Lúthien, by way of your son. I do not hate Arda, for all that I believe it should have been better made. I do not believe that I hate Eru, though I cannot think of Him as well as I once did. And it is none of the Children of Eru, mortal or immortal or Gifted or Doomed or pure or corrupt, who are to blame. I do not hate **you,** Maitimo Nelyafinw_ _ë; nor would I ever wish to unmake your being, for you are precious and beloved_
  * Again, Maedhros is in the embrace of Námo; and again, Maedhros is weeping in catharsis and gaining a measure of healing
  * _What I hate is your suffering, and that of all those who pass through my Halls. I hate that it could have been prevented, but that it has not been, and that there will be pain in the future, for that is Arda Marred. I **hate** And I bear anger for my other kin, so many of whom brought the Vanyar and the Noldor and the Teleri to their places and since have acted as though because these few Children of Eru are well enough, there is nothing worth caring for outside of Aman. I know it is not true of all – Ulmo has ever cared for those who live by the water on whatever shore they dwell, no matter their origin; and Orom_ _ë hunts the dark with a deep knowledge of its cruelty that Tulkas, for all his strength and ability to recognize evil, cannot match; and Aul_ _ë alone of all of us has mortal children of his own creation for whom he bears great love, and he despairs for each of their losses and pains as I do for each of those in my care; and Írmo and Est_ _ë tend grievous hurts and know that there are some who cannot be saved and that there are some wounds that will never fully heal_
  * _Then how can you believe?_ Maedhros asks through his tears
  * _I can hope because you are here,_ Námo tells him. _I found some faith again when you knelt in my Receiving Hall newly dead. To the Void you condemned yourself, to be unmade or corrupted beyond saving; but for love and for care Eru returned you, and returned you **here,** where your knowledge and your actions have turned aside great evil that would have otherwise come to pass. He did not have to do thus, and so it is that I know He has care enough to intervene for rightness in this world – though I would still say He could put more effort into it. Still, you are saved beyond hope and possibility, and so I cannot do otherwise but believe but it was well done, for no life saved is ill-saved, for there is love and mercy and care in the act, if not in what may result from it_
  * _Still,_ Maedhros says. _All else being true, I have left my family behind, and my leaving has pulled Fingon from his. They will think us both lost to the Void, and that is no kindness of Eru’s doing_
  * _I believe you will be returned, after you have been released from these Halls_
  * Maedhros recoils
  * _Calm, Maitimo,_ Námo soothes him. _You are not ready, and will not be for some time yet. Nor do I think it will be an immediate returning. Even once my realm has done what it can for you, still will you have need of this world, before you can face the trials of your final healing_
  * _Trials?_ Maedhros asks, weary and wary of his foretold future
  * _Can you truly heal, if you never face those you have wronged?_ Námo doesn’t need him to answer, they both know he won’t, and he can’t. _But neither can you learn to live again while fearing their retribution. I will give you leave of my Halls when you are more desirous of returning to life than you will be regretful of leaving death; and Eru will return you to your Arda when you have the strength to live with being forgiven_



* * *

  * Fëanor strides the battlements of Pindost until the sunlight throws long shadows towards the east. The guards avoid him at first, but as the hours wear on, they simply ignore him
  * He sees Fingolfin exit the keep into the courtyard and heads for one of the towers. Below, the Lord of Pindost marks his brother’s goal and changes direction
  * Fëanor reaches the top of the tower some minutes before Fingolfin. The posted guards had had the sense to make themselves scarce once they’d realized what was impending, so when Fingolfin arrives, he finds Fëanor alone, standing by the crenellations, arms crossed beneath his cloak, looking out over Dorthonion
  * “Is this just something Himring does to her Lords?” Fingolfin asks, going to stand next to his brother. “Inducing them to brood dramatically atop the highest available vantage point? Or is it something Maedhros got from you?”
  * “I’m blaming Himring,” Fëanor says, because he’s also avoiding why they’ve spent the afternoon in opposite parts of the fortress
  * The sun is setting. It’s not very dramatic this evening- it’s too cloudy, for one. But even without that, whatever Ainu is in charge of this sort of thing has put in a half-hearted effort of pink and deep orange that’s muddling directly into dark blue-grey-purple. They’ve both seen much better
  * Fingolfin sighs. It’s not quite cold enough yet for his breath to properly fog, but there’s a hint of white there. It will be fully dark before the temperature drops low enough to create a billow in the starlight
  * “Father has always loved you best,” he begins. “I don’t even know if he’d deny it, if we asked. It’s why I never have. It isn’t as if he _doesn’t_ love Mother and Findis and Lalwen and Arafinwë and I- and I know that. He wouldn’t have put up with all that from Manwë and Varda, much less his own people and Mother’s too, if he didn’t love us enough to think it was all worth it. But even without that. Findis and Arafinwë are awfully Vanyar for Noldor, in looks and temperament. Findis has it worse than he does, but- anyway. I don’t think Lalwen has ever cared a whit for whatever anyone else thinks in her entire life, Ainur or Eldar. Our parents’ opinions don’t bother her, and she goes where she likes and associates with whoever she wants. Mother and Findis and Arafinwë make a tidy little group. They’re all very much alike, and they like the same things, and they get along without any real effort. But I’m Noldo, the whole way through, even with Mother and Uncle Ingwë. I’m like Father. And Father loves you best.”
  * They’re not looking at each other. The sunset is better
  * “I know you had a time of it, Fëanáro,” he continues, and hopes his brother doesn’t interrupt in outrage or irritation. “With people saying what they do, about Míriel. The same kinds of people say things about Indis. Different things; but only in the content, not the intent. None of them think children understand or are paying attention or are around to hear. Or they don’t care. Either way they _shouldn’t,_ but they _do,_ and no one has ever really stopped them. Father always does when he hears it, but even in Tirion it wasn’t hard to be out of his earshot. I don’t know if it’s- if Míriel is why, because you don’t have her or because you’re his living connection to her, or if it was all about trying to apologize for the mess of getting married to Mother, or because you’re controversial and argumentative so he paid more attention, or if it really is just that he’d like you the best no matter what. But I’m the one like my father and all the others who cared had Mother and I _didn’t._ I don’t. I thought- when I was younger, I thought, if I could just get his _attention,_ if I could be better than you- but I can’t outshine your brilliance, and having better manners and behaving better at court only made me that much easier for Father to pass over, because I wasn’t troublesome. Attention-grabbing. But then I argued with _you,_ and I ”
  * They might not have stars tonight. There’s enough clouds that it could be rain, instead, or sleet. The time of year is right for either
  * “And then it wasn’t Father’s attention I was trying to get,” Fingolfin says. “Because suddenly I had And it was _better._ ”
  * “Why?” Fëanor asks. It’s unexpectedly neutral
  * “You can’t not care,” Fingolfin says. “No matter what you do, you _care_ about it, or else you wouldn’t bother. If it’s worth your time, you give it; if it isn’t, you don’t. We had our first real fight and Father was disappointed but he wasn’t- it wasn’t what I wanted, I don’t know- but _I_ mattered to We didn’t really know each other since you were away as often as you could be after Father married Mother, but I still knew you were my brother and you were Noldor like Father and I but you _saw me._ And I loved you for it. I still love you for it.”
  * “You… like arguing?”
  * “No, Fëanáro, I _don’t_ like arguing with you. Not in truth. I _hate_ the fighting. I wanted to be better than you so Father would love me like he did you, and then I wanted you to keep paying attention and love me back. But the only way I could figure out to reliably get and keep your attention was the arguing, and the more we argued the more you thought ill of me and the more I couldn’t see why Father liked you so much better, and then we were _hating_ each other, except I didn’t really hate you all that much, I just wanted you to see me _properly_ and stop-”
  * There’s a lot he could say here. He could pull up their shared history proper, not even the summarized events of the memory-dream, and they’d still be here come sunset tomorrow and he still wouldn’t be finished
  * But it all really comes down to the same thing, in the end
  * “If you won’t let me be your brother, then I will be your half-brother,” Fingolfin says to Fëanor, finally looking at him. “If you refuse to claim me as family, then I will be your fellow Prince of the Noldor. If you decry me even as a colleague, then I will be your rival. But even as a rival, eldest son of our father, I will _always_ be no less than the loyal opposition, because you are my brother, and so I will never _betray you._ That’s the least acknowledgement I’ve ever wanted from you, that I will always consider you my family, even if I will not insist you do the same for the sake of peace. That’s the point _he_ was making, even if by the end he was making it for the sake of the thing more than he truly believed that his brother would ever recognize what he was doing.”
  * Fëanor doesn’t look back, but he does drop his eyes from almost-set sun to the hills of northwest Dorthonion
  * “Father should skip me in the succession as I am Makalaurë,” he says
  * “I will fall on my own sword before I take up that crown while you still live,” Fingolfin calmly declares. “I’ll swear an oath about it if you’d like.”
  * _That_ gets Fëanor to look at him. It’s a glare. This falls into the bad habits Fingolfin has _just_ been regretting and they’re both well aware of that, in this moment, but what he was staying still stands. Their best, fastest, and easiest communication strategy is still making the other angry
  * “No oaths,” Fëanor says. “Not _to_ me, not _for_ me, not _about_ me, not _from_ I’m-”
  * He directs his glare towards the broad, cleared strip of field encircling the walls of Pindost
  * “I’m _too much,_ I overwhelm everything I get too close to and it all falls to ruin-”
  * Fingolfin grabs Fëanor’s shoulder and shakes him, just enough to get him to shut up
  * “You are not too much for me!” he says firmly, startling his brother into looking at him again. “Historically speaking, I can and will survive far more than anything you put me through, and only Morgoth directly was my end.”
  * “If he so much as _touches_ you I will _end him._ ”
  * Fingolfin smiles, and slides his arm around Fëanor’s shoulders, and presses their foreheads together, just for an instant
  * If he can’t say anything directly yet- that’s fine. He’d stayed, and he’d _listened_
  * And he hadn’t argued. Fëanor hadn’t denied him
  * Fingolfin walks them both back to the keep, arm still around his brother’s shoulder, and feels loved



* * *

  * Maedhros has stopped tearing through the Halls as though he can outrun his thoughts, so he must be doing better. Fingon seeks him out, and finds him near the Receiving Hall. Mostly only the newly-arrived or the soon to be returned linger so close to the passage between death and life, and Fingon is surprised at him. This is certainly the closest Maedhros has ever come to it since arriving, by quite a distance
  * He sits down next to him
  * _Lord Námo believes that we will be returned to the world we left, in time,_ Maedhros eventually says
  * Fingon is secretly relieved. If they were stuck here, he would bear it; but he would have regrets and griefs he would not be able to shed
  * _He said I would leave the Halls,_ Maedhros adds. The words are laced with anxious fear and nervous disbelief
  * _Of course you will,_ Fingon says, ruminating on that fear and disbelief. _We’re not meant to stay forever. For a very long time, maybe, for some people, but we’re meant to be here to heal. Once we’re done, or as done as we can be, we go back to life. It gets strange, I think, because the world is Marred and so sometimes there are those who have hurts that will plague them equally as much if they were alive or dead-_
  * He flashes on himself, and Fëanor
  * _-and sometimes people hurt so much it takes Ages to fix._ He takes Maedhros’s hand. _Even if it took you until Dagor Dagorath to be ready to leave, I’d stay, because we’re meant to **live,** Maedhros_
  * _Then you should leave before then-_
  * _No,_ Fingon says. _I lived without you before and I hated it. I left the Halls then only because if I hadn’t I would have just ended up missing you **and** my family. I was as healed as I was going to be before then, but I hadn’t left because I didn’t have a reason to. If you’re here, then I have reason to stay. Námo can’t **make** anyone leave, only keep them from going_
  * _If elves are meant to live-_
  * _Maedhros,_ Fingon cuts him off. _You are of the Eldar, too. You are not some monster, nor some kind of nebulous evil masquerading as one of Eru’s children. You are Maitimo Nelyafinwë, son of Nerdanel and Fëanor, grandson of Mahtan and Míriel and Finwë, descendant of the Tatyar Clan of Cuiviénen who were Unbegotten and awoke to starlight on the waters. You are of the Eruhíni, you are of the Noldor, you are beloved and wondrous and created with care for love and for Arda, and **nothing** that has been done to you or that you have done to others can change that. You were not made for the Void, nor did you come from it, nor were you ever meant to go to it. You are meant to live just as much as I_
  * Maedhros looks away. Fingon reaches up and gently turns his head back
  * _You deserve to live just as much as I_
  * Maedhros won’t look him in the eyes
  * _And what of other’s healing?_ he asks. _Of other’s peace? There cannot be so many who wish my company, and far more who would rather I never return_
  * He’s not exactly wrong, is the problem, and Maedhros might not might know exactly what Fingon had had to listen to about Fëanorians after his first stay in the Halls – they haven’t really spoken of it – but he’s more than capable of extrapolating from his own history and actions
  * _Just because other people won’t like it doesn’t mean you get to be denied what **you** need, _Fingon tells him. _Anyway, **I** want you, and your brothers want you, and your father-_
  * _And you are here, and there are none or so very few who want them!_
  * _Elrond wants you,_ Fingon persists. This is the ultimate finishing play he has and it works. Maedhros hunches in on himself. Guilt and regret and longing seep around him
  * _He should not,_ Maedhros weakly insists
  * _He has strong opinions on being told how he **should** feel about his parents, which he kindly dampened for me when I did the same thing you just did and half-heartedly agreed with a guilty conscience and tried to counter my relief at having someone to grieve you with by pointing out that absconding with children whose people you’d just finished attacking is not a morally virtuous act. He doesn’t **care,** Not in a way that means he won’t love you or call you ‘Father’. I’m sure he’d rather you hadn’t attacked the Havens, but he also doesn’t want to not have had you. This is me telling you, from **your son,** to **stop**_
  * _He is too accommodating, too forgiving, he sh-_
  * _You deserve to love, too,_ Fingon says. _And to be loved_
  * There are tears dripping from Maedhros’s eyelashes and he’s trying to stop them. Fingon grabs his hand and holds it in place
  * _I know you love me,_ he says. _And you’ve never denied it even when you’ve felt unworthy of it. Nor have you ever tried to **keep** yourself from loving me. Give your son the respect he deserves and the dignity of his own agency; and you and yours as well!_
  * _I hurt him-_
  * _You have hurt **me** _
  * _He has real p-_
  * ‘ _Two parents I have who cast themselves for grief into the sea, and two for love into the Void’, he said to me_
  * _Poetic license_
  * _Given who raised him,_ Fingon counters. _I don’t know what else you’d expect but highlighting dramatic parallels. And don’t you start about it being artificial, he’s **not** Elwing threw herself to the waves for her second loss of family and home and Maglor faded onto the sea winds when he was brought the news that the Oath was never binding; Eärendil would rather have been counted of the Edain but chose the Eldar and Gil-Estel for his wife’s sake and you drove yourself to destruction and the Darkness for your family’s_
  * _How do you know?_ Maedhros asks
  * _You **told** me-_
  * _No- about Eärendil and Elwing’s reasons,_ Maedhros says. _Did Elrond tell you what they said, or-?_
  * _Oh,_ Fingon realizes. _You **wouldn’t** I’m sorry, I forgot- it’s common knowledge in Aman, and I think it was supposed to have made it to Númenor too_
  * _Númenor?_
  * _Elros’s kingdom,_ Fingon reminds him. That had been an early talk of theirs, the Choice of the Peredhel. _Eärendil is a star and doesn’t really come down, as far as I’ve heard; and Elwing has a tower up north, right in the sea. The Teleri send supplies out every so often, and say she only leaves to see her husband, but I **assume** she’s gone to see her parents-_
  * Maedhros grips his hand
  * _Dior and Nimloth live again?_
  * _They left before I did._ _They’re supposed to be… somewhere, with the Doriathrim, and a lot of the Sindarin? But not the ones who were left after the Wrath? I’m sorry I can’t tell you more-_
  * _The rest of the family?_
  * _Last I knew Thingol was still in the Halls,_ Fingon says, trying to recall any bit of news or gossip he’d known about the Sindarin from Tirion. _Opinion was divided about whether that was because of his character or because he was still mourning Lúthien; but I also know the sorts of things they say about why **your** father is still there, so I don’t trust them to actually know anything. Melian essentially re-founded Doriath in Valinor, Girdle included, except it specifically keeps out Noldor this time. Enough that we don’t know where it is. Well, Finrod said **Galadriel** knows where it is, and she moved out near there with her husband and most of the latest-come elves who didn’t go to Elrond, so we know approximately where it is? Melian’s great-grandsons are ambassadors, Eluréd was at Uncle Arafinwë’s court for a little while when I was-_
  * _I looked for them,_ Maedhros interrupts, oddly desperate. _I- Celegorm’s people, they-_
  * _I know,_ Fingon sighs, remembering the talk in Tirion. _About them being left in the woods, I mean. It’s come up. I didn’t know you’d looked. I’m glad you did_
  * _I couldn’t find them,_ Maedhros says. _I- it’s good to hear that they have their family again. That they made it to Aman. Menegroth was too close to the Valley and its monsters, and I always wondered- there was so much Shadow there_
  * _I don’t know how they died,_ Fingon says cautiously. _But Eluréd seemed all right. Better than Elwing, anyway- who I know about why she turned to the sea at the Havens and that Eärendil doesn’t really want to be an elf and the rest of it because it’s one of the famous stories about the Wrath, and one of the only ones you can tell without having to recount any actual fighting, and also-_
  * He doesn’t like this but to be honest he has to include it
  * _One people could use to talk about how much they don’t like Fëanorians. But I’m sure some of it is politics- ‘returned Exile loudly denouncing Fëanor and his House in public’ could be a stereotype role in a stage play, if anyone was writing about Beleriand_
  * There’s a tense moment where Fingon isn’t sure how Maedhros will react. He’s expecting a renewed guilt spiral, so his response is a surprise
  * _They don’t write about Beleriand?_
  * _Maedhros, they’re trying very hard to pretend that Beleriand never happened,_ Fingon says. _I mean, they sing about some of it. Lúthien and Beren, and so Finrod by association. My father’s duel with Morgoth. Elwing and Eärendil. The War of Wrath, the victories and the end of it. About me and the Nírnaeth, sometimes; but that’s more tragedy than heroic and- I didn’t like them doing it. Not because it was my death. Because the people writing the things kept blaming you_
  * _Ulfang was one of Caranthir’s, I should have-_
  * _And Bór was yours!_ Fingon snaps. _It **wasn’t** your fault, that was Sauron! Stop taking his blame!_
  * _Why pretend that Beleriand never happened?_ Maedhros asks, dodging assignations of responsibility. Fingon lets him. For now
  * _So they can pretend that the Kinslayings never happened,_ he says, the familiar anger and bitterness comfortable and unwanted. _That there was no long defeat, no divisions amongst the Noldor. That none of them ever did anything worse than make some poor judgements on a battlefield. That none of us did anything Oh, it comes up, you can’t avoid mentioning Beleriand, but it’s never- connected to anything. You can say you lived in Nargothrond or Barad Eithel or Gondolin, and Uncle Arafinwë has retained everyone’s nobility – so many Lords, and all the Kings are Princes again! – and you can make passing reference of locales or someone’s accomplishments. But you’re never **from** anywhere in Beleriand, never a Lord **of** somewhere, and you **certainly** can’t **miss it.** Not in public. Because then **obviously** you want to **leave,** and **leaving Aman** means all the terrible things they’re and we’re pretending none of us ever had any part of, because that’s all ‘Fëanor and his sons’, who are oh-so-conveniently not around to defend themselves and have no one to speak up for them!_
  * _No one should be defending us,_ Maedhros says after a moment
  * _Yes they should!_ Fingon says hotly. _Because you’ve all done good things, too! And even if you hadn’t, **other people** still also participated! Contributed! And pretending like they didn’t is wrong!_
  * Inspiration strikes. A bit late maybe, but still close enough to timely to be useful
  * _You’re worried about other people’s healing?_ Fingon asks, sharper than he’d intended to. _Well, you showing up might make them actually do it! It’ll be good for them to have someone around with enough integrity that he won’t pretend nothing’s wrong and enough of a sense of responsibility that he won’t let anyone else pretend they weren’t also a part of it! They need it! Because that’s not **peace** they have in Tirion, between the Noldor who left and the Noldor who didn’t, no matter what they think, not if the simple reappearance of Fëanor or any of his sons would dramatically implode it!_
  * Something occurs to him, and he doesn’t think he likes it
  * _I wonder if that’s why none of them had been released, yet,_ he says sourly. _You’d think Amrod at least would have gotten out, he was only ever at Alqualondë_
  * Not that you could necessarily equate number of traumas to length of recovery time. Some people were better at self-reflection and forgiveness, and some people just recovered from things faster. And Amrod might have been allowed to go and was just waiting for Amras – or _any_ of them could only be waiting on the rest, that was a very Fëanorian kind of attitude to have. It wasn’t like Fingon had actually asked
  * _No, that’s not how it works,_ he says. _They’re not imprisoned, they’ll leave when they’re ready, I shouldn’t have said that, sorry. I’m just- I’m still mad about it all. Because it means they never say anything good about you or the people you died for; and for Aredhel who refuses to live around them for her son’s sake like I did for yours; and for Turvo and Finrod who lost their entire kingdoms they built from the ground up for love of the craft and for the safety of their people and don’t even get the courtesy of their titles for it; and everybody else who came with us in Exile and has to pretend like the most pivotal parts of their lives never really happened. Even Elrond said he wouldn’t live in Tirion, he was going to go find somewhere else, Celebrían couldn’t stand it and he can’t stand it either and it’s too big for him to fix even if he tried. It’s not the kind of thing you can heal people of individually. Or argue them out of individually_
  * Fingon sighs and leans back against the wall, trying to let the frustrations of the past dissipate. There’s nothing he can do about, either. Or else he’s already done everything he can to fix it, by going after Maedhros; and eventually they’ll be back in the Arda they came from, and _then_ they can work on it
  * _My brothers,_ Maedhros says, after a stretch of quiet. _Are they- I know you said they’re all- not Maglor, but-_
  * He takes a deep, nonexistent breath
  * _How were they doing, Findekáno? **Really** doing? Specifically_
  * Fingon cracks a small smile and leans into him. He’s tired from his outburst and the conversation before, but this is the first Maedhros has voiced worry for his family as anything other than a collective, as a victim of the Oath or an abstracted loss of their world switch
  * Maedhros is letting himself care _individually_ , and if it’s not the exact way Fingon had been pushing him to? He’ll still take it




	8. Chapter 7

  * “This is really happening?” he asks again, still staring into the mirror. There’s a _thwap_ as Huan’s tail hits the hardwood floor
  * “I’m still just as surprised,” Aredhel says, nudging him over so she can check the positioning of her white gold coronet. It has sapphires in it, and diamonds, and there are strands of faceted rock and smoky quartz woven through her hair on silver thread with seed pearls to create the fashionable _‘stars in the hair’_ look that she likes. It goes well with the contrasting greys of her outfit, dove and storm and charcoal highlighted with white and brilliant shimmering sky blue-
  * “But we’re all here and your father hasn’t called it off yet, so I guess he’s serious,” she says. “And you’re wandering, stop it.”
  * “Írissë he wants me to _marry you,_ ” Tyelkormo blurts out
  * Aredhel’s hands freeze on her coronet
  * “He wants us to ”
  * “He won’t believe me when I say it’s not like that!” he says. “I _told him_ we’d never-”
  * “You’re _family!_ ”
  * _“I know!”_
  * “He can’t replace our brothers with us!”
  * Tyelkormo has his mouth open to agree, and then stalls out, trying to figure out what she means. He’s replacing Makalaurë as heir, yes; and Aredhel is younger than Turukáno who no one can find so if something happens to her father she could step up? But _his_ father doesn’t have any control over that. Anairë could very well end up head of the House of Fingolfin, she’s Noldo and isn’t heir to her own House like Nerdanel is, there’s nothing stopping her from taking over the family
  * Aredhel meets his eyes in the mirror, expression sombre
  * “The _other_ older brothers,” she says
  * Oh
  * “I can’t replace Nelyo,” he says, anxiety rising again. “I _can’t,_ Írissë, he’s- ”
  * He could never be that perceptive, that brave, that diplomatic, that well-spoken. He’s the next-prettiest of them, sure, but it’s not like that takes _talent_
  * (And it’s not like he wants anyone noticing, either; but he can’t say that any more than he can admit to being a coward-)
  * “Not like that,” his favorite cousin says, and takes his hands, pulling both their gazes from the mirror. “Tyelko. Nelyafinwë and Findekáno were _in love_ with each other.”
  * “…No.”
  * _“Yes,”_ Aredhel tells him firmly. “I’d thought I was the only one who’d noticed, but I guess your father did, too. It has to have been in hindsight otherwise none of us would ever have heard the end of it.”
  * “But if Father’s- you and me- he never even- Nelyo- he _can’t-_ ”
  * “He approves enough that he’s insisting about us instead of trying to run me off.”
  * “But he _hates_ your side of the family,” Tyelkormo says, trying to square this with his entire life experience. “And we’re _cousins!_ ”
  * “Tyelko,” Aredhel says. “If I loved you as anything other than my most interesting almost-brother and co-Lord, I _would_ actually be willing to consider marrying you. But if you’re going to tell me my eldest brother and your eldest brother are some kind of, of unnatural deviants for loving li-”
  * _“No!”_ Tyelkormo exclaims, horrified, and too loudly. It takes up too much space in this bedroom reserved for him in Barad Eithel
  * “Good because I was going to punch you in the face if you did, and then you’d have to explain it to your father _and_ Grandfather Finwë when you go out there in a three-quarters hour.”
  * “Don’t remind me,” he pleads. “I just, I don’t understand ”
  * (Not that he’d ever understood how people could love _like that._ In the marriage way)
  * She shrugs
  * “It just _is,_ ” she says. “When it takes, it takes. Happens to everyone eventually.”
  * (He’s not sure it does)
  * (He doesn’t know what that says about him; but this is yet another way that he can’t measure up to Nelyo, another reason he shouldn’t be heir. He can fight Morgoth’s creatures well enough, he’s been doing it for centuries now, and he knows he’s not _that_
  * But he’s adjacent, he’s pretty sure. Evil can’t love and he loves his family and he loves Huan and he cares about people but he’s never loved like he’d want a spouse, want What kind of an elf doesn’t want _children?_ Doesn’t fantasize about a spouse, about Eru’s gift of a wedding bond and a marriage with the soul who was made for yours?
  * He is a coward and some kind of Marred but he doesn’t know what has been ruined in him or when it happened, nor how to fix it
  * He cannot be his father’s heir and he cannot tell his father why, his father who insists on the sanctity of holy matrimony and his father who loves his family so fiercely and his father who has seven sons
  * His father who looks at him and his silver hair and his cloth and sees his dead mother, who saves his worst rages for those few who dare to say that Míriel Therindë died because she didn’t love him, couldn’t bear to live with him
  * Tyelkormo is sickly certain that if he ever had a wife and they had a child he’d die too, because the sheer _revulsion-_ )
  * _“Tyelko,”_ Aredhel is saying, aloud but the resonance is mental. Her hands are holding his face. “ _Fëaháno._ Come back.”
  * He twitches, shudders. Shakes himself
  * “Sorry,” he mutters. “Sorry-”
  * Huan is resting his snout atop his head, pressing close against his back. He’s going to have to pick fur off his formal robes
  * “No,” Aredhel says. “No _‘sorry’_. There’s nothing to apologize for. I’ll keep saying it as long as you need to hear it, there’s nothing wrong with being nervous about this.”
  * (Someday they’ll know better and they’ll leave him, Írissë and Huan, but until then all he can do is cling and hope that delays it. Someday _everyone_ will know better and he’ll have no one, but if in the meantime he can prove himself loyal enough, useful enough, maybe-)
  * Aredhel hugs him tightly
  * “You’ll get-”
  * “We’ve still got time,” she says. “We can worry about how we look Yeah, it’s still weird that your father is skipping Makalaurë, but it seems like he means it and Makalaurë’s said plenty of times now that he’s fine with it, doesn’t want to be heir at all, he’d rather you have it. And you’ll do a good job at it, Tyelko. You’re not your father and you’re not Nelyafinwë and that’s _fine._ If it comes to it, you absolutely _can_ be head of your House, or Crown Prince, or High King. You’ll have your mother and your grandfather and all your brothers and their spouses and _me_ to rely on. You’re not going to be going it alone.”
  * Tyelkormo hugs her back
  * (His father is right about this much: if he ever was to marry someone, he’d marry her. But he doesn’t love her the right way for that, and he won’t hurt her by trying to pretend that he does and trapping her in a marriage she’ll come to resent
  * Even if his father keeps insisting. He can pretend he’s not craven enough to hold his ground on _this_ )



* * *

  * Curufinwë had been glaring at him whenever he thinks he can get away with it for _days_
  * Makalaurë has had _enough_ of it
  * “What’s your _problem,_ Curvo?” he demands, dragging his brother away from the rest of court
  * “How can you just let this _go!_ ” his brother demands, quietly enough that they probably won’t be overheard. “You never even protested!”
  * Makalaurë huffs a sigh, anticipating where this will go
  * _“I don’t want it,”_ he says again, but puts some of the power of his voice behind it, this time. “And I’m _tired_ of having to repeat myself, _Atarinkë._ ”
  * Predictably, Curufinwë’s nostrils flare in anger at being called by his mother-name. _No one_ can get away with that, except for his wife
  * _“Spineless,”_ he hisses accusingly. “Where have you misplaced your _pride,_ Kánafinwë? Your sense of duty? Wherever you stashed your propriety when you went haring after-”
  * _“Don’t you dare.”_
  * Makalaurë’s grip on Curufinwë’s tunic tightens, and he pulls his younger brother closer in
  * “Insult my wife again,” he challenges, voice low with dangerous promise. “I know I told you what would happen if you ever did.”
  * “She’s a _Dark Elf,_ you don’t know-”
  * Caranthir and Amras are pulling them apart the next thing he knows. He’s torn three fingernails and there’s power seething behind his teeth. Caranthir’s ringed hand is clenched over his mouth and the other arm has him in a body-lock. Amras has resorted to a simple pitting of forge-strength against farm-strength and come out of the winner, feet braced against the floor, holding Curufinwë back with weight and leverage
  * “You are _so_ lucky that Ambarussa and Rosfaloth are distracting Father and Mother,” Amras glowers at both of them. He glances down, frowns harder, and intones a snatch of chords under his breath. Makalaurë’s bleeding hand heals and the faint pain stops, even if his nails are still wrecked from catching on some of Curufinwë’s jewelry
  * “At least _he_ had the decency to marry into a _proper_ Kindred-”
  * Amras turns his scathing look solely onto Curufinwë
  * “I’m not letting go until you drop it,” Caranthir mutters to him while their other brothers are matching glares. “If you bite me, I’m kneeing you.”
  * Makalaurë growls wordlessly and starts dispersing the power he’s built up. When he finally exhales through his teeth, Caranthir lets him go. Makalaurë shoves him a little as he steps away and gets a look for it
  * Amras and Curufinwë are still glaring at each other. He’s about eighty percent certain they’re arguing using ósanwë instead of words
  * “Stop being an ass just because your smith rival turned out to be mildly evil,” Caranthir orders Curufinwë. “Leithind hasn’t done shit to Laurë _or_ anyone else and you know it. Knock it off and fuck off until you can _pretend_ to be civil. If you won’t do it because he’s your older brother then you’ll do it because maybe he won’t be heir any longer but he’ll _still_ outrank you until _and_ unless you ever become Crown Prince.”
  * Curufinwë gives them all a general glare before storming off in response
  * “I’m still telling Menelissë on him,” Makalaurë says. “ _She_ likes Leithind well enough.”
  * “Oh, she knows,” Amras says. “She was already telling him off for it when Moryo started in on him.”
  * “You really should stay out of people’s marriage bonds.”
  * “I _do,_ ” Amras complains. “But if they start _talking_ while I’m _already there-_ ”
  * “You still haven’t found anyone to help with that?” Caranthir asks
  * “This _is_ with Finrod’s help; and I’m _not_ going all the way to Menegroth to Galadriel. I have farms to run, unless you all want to ”
  * “Nedhelion has farms too,” Makalaurë grumbles
  * “Your soil quality is abysmal,” Amras says. “The pasturage per acre if only you’d devise some kind of watering system-”
  * “I am _not_ digging trenches.”
  * “ _Wells,_ Laurë, there’s _groundwater-_ ”
  * “And it barely rains enough to keep the water table at a feasible level as it is!”
  * “Which is why you need _my_ farms and _my_ farmers, or else you’d not have drought-resistant crops at all, even if you still have all those wildfires that you can’t manage-”
  * “It’s better losing crop fields than leaving it all to the horses, we don’t need _that_ many of them and they’d stampede as soon as one of those wildfires gets close enough to smell!” Makalaurë continues the argument towards it’s well-worn conclusion. “That’s a stupid way to get people killed and I refuse to encourage it! If I had my choice, I’d-”
  * “-move to Doriath,” Amras says along with him. That’s the traditional close of this argument
  * “You _could,_ ” Caranthir says after a moment. “You won’t be third-in-line soon. Curvo and Menelissë and Tyelpë could take it, they’re already running Himlad out of Estolad. It’s really only northern Nedhelion that’s much use anyway, unless-”
  * “Do _not_ start on about razing part of the Andram again,” Amras says, pointing for emphasis. “I don’t _care_ if you could do it, that dropoff from the near-steppe is creating an atmospheric buildup from the change in pressure as the wind blows-”
  * “But if I built a dam-”
  * “ _First_ of all the Green-Elves of Ossiriand would break their isolation just to murder you, and _second_ of all Just leave it alone! It’s a finely balanced ecosystem and those cliffs mean my farms get the rain from the Belegaer, which is keeping all of _you_ in grain and vegetables!”
  * “Potatoes,” Caranthir counters with the smug assurance of a man who’s discovered the singular crop he can successfully cultivate at altitude
  * “You’re just bad at gardening,” Amras counters, sliding into a third old, easy argument. “If you just _tried_ proper terracing and let me import manured compost-”
  * Makalaurë leaves them to argue land use and wanders back to the court proper. The ceremony should be starting soon



* * *

  * His husband is always quietly, politely bemused whenever they attend a formal Noldorin function. Amrod can’t blame him, Rosfaloth will always at heart be a Faladhrim mussel-dredger, no matter how much he has to dress up as the husband of a Prince
  * He’s thankful for it, though, even beyond the fact that Rosfaloth is just that unflappable and Amrod loves everything he is. It means that his husband fits in nicely with the rest of the family as none of his brothers’ spouses have managed to. Menelissë and Erelind are both Noldor and will always be at least a _little_ intimidated about having _Fëanor Silmarilndo_ as their husband’s father; while Leithind lives up to her name and is far too free-hearted and Moriquendi to truly relate to any of them besides her husband
  * But Rosfaloth is just as uninterested in the royal title of his husband as Nerdanel was, and is, of his father’s; and his husband has a very common, down-to-earth sense of practicality and valuation that means he’s appreciative of most of what Fëanor comes up with without being the least bit intimidated or overawed by his skill. Amrod’s father likes having someone who respects but doesn’t fawn and Amrod’s mother likes having someone who couldn’t care less for the titles and the status and he has married the _best_ man in all of Arda
  * Rosfaloth is also very understanding about the drama of having so many brothers and will keep his parents-by-marriage’s attention while Amrod responds to his twin’s alert about the latest of it and intercepts Makalaurë as he re-enters the throne hall
  * “Our hands are _not_ the same size,” his elder brother says when Amrod shoves a pair of gloves at him
  * “They’re Rosfaloth’s and _you_ don’t go around with damaged hands, whereas _my_ husband is famously unbothered by Noldorin standards and won’t care about showing ragged nails or old scars on his fingers.”
  * “I’ll get commented on,” Makalaurë says, but starts to pull them on anyway. “I never wear gloves. It will be weird.”
  * “ _You’re_ weird,” Amrod retorts. “And it’s a weird day, everyone has better things to talk about than why you’re wearing dress gloves at the ceremony to drop you from the succession.”
  * “They really won’t,” his brother says, flexing his hands to test the fit of the borrowed gloves. “You’ve been spending too much time on your island if you’ve forgotten about courtly gossip, O Prince of Balar.”
  * “And _you,_ Your Most Royal Highness of Nedhelion, are the love-addled eccentric who wed a wandering elleth of no family or known Kindred who is so unfashionably attired here today at court and yet is still titled a Princess of the Noldor. They’ll talk about Leithind more than you no matter what you wear. _‘Common knowledge’_ has it at more than even odds that she’s the reason Father is passing you over for Tyelko – don’t look at me like that, _I’m_ not Curufinwë and you know I’m not wrong.”
  * His brother switches his scowl to the gloves and grumbles wordlessly at them. They suddenly change color and acquire embroidery to match his outfit
  * “Extravagant,” Amrod comments dryly
  * “It’s not like I’ll be doing anything _else,_ ” Makalaurë half-complains. “It’s a ceremony about me so I can’t perform because This is the _worst_ sort of court.”
  * “You want to get out of attendance on Grandfather Finwë you do what Artanis did and run away to Menegroth,” Amrod tells him without any shred of sympathy
  * “I can’t,” his brother says. He’s definitely grouchy about it. “Estolad’s the only place Leithind will sit still for.”
  * “Just as well, if you actually tried to establish yourself in Doriath you and Daeron would club each other to death with improbable instrumental improvised weaponry before the year was out, and then Grandfather would have to declare war on King Thingol too.”
  * “Why are the two of you _like this,_ Ambarussa _._ ”
  * “I’m Fated, don’t you remember?” Amrod says, slinging an arm around Makalaurë’s shoulders and walking him towards the milling courtiers. “Terrible fiery death Mother foresaw, and now we’re in a land with Balrogs! I don’t know what other kind of humor you were expecting.”



* * *

  * An important precedent is being set this day
  * Fëanor doesn’t think his father realizes – or Arafinwë, or anyone other than perhaps Nerdanel, Fingolfin, and Anairë – what he’s accomplishing with this
  * Everyone else thinks he’s passing over a son who doesn’t meet his standards. Even his father thinks that’s what he’s doing. He can see it in his eyes
  * He’s not, he’s doing it _for_ his son. But it’s also serving a more important purpose
  * There’s no precedent for this ceremony, so there were a few dozen tentative scriptings of how this would go. What they’re loosely following is the average of the best variants
  * Finwë receives him, Kánafinwë, and Turkafinwë as High King. Fëanor announces his intent to declare an heir. Finwë asks what calamity has befallen his family that he has no obvious line of succession. Fëanor says that nothing has befallen his family, he simply wishes for someone other than his current eldest living child to be recognized and accepted as his heir, and names Turkafinwë
  * Finwë challenges him on behalf of Kánafinwë. Kánafinwë defends the proposition by declaring his agreement with his father’s wishes. Finwë challenges Turkafinwë about usurping his elder brother. Turkafinwë denies any and all accusations of political maneuvering for personal gain
  * This is where Fëanor hijacks the script
  * “I do this for my sons,” he declares for the entire court to hear. He’s not meant to speak here, it’s his father’s turn, but he has something important to say. “I love them, and so I strive to understand them, and with that understanding and that love and this relationship comes a duty of care, which can be foresworn only in evil and cruelty. When I see those I love in danger, I _must_ act! And so do I and Makalaurë Kánafinwë both know him well enough to be aware that his skills are not best suited for the burden of duty that would befall him should I perish, and that he would suffer for the attempt to fulfill the roll required of our circumstances, and so have we both no desire to force him to continue on this path! Whereas I know my third son, Tyelkormo Turkafinwë, is proven an able leader for the forces of our House, both of his own permanent command and the temporary supervision of mine own when I have been away; and that he is well-regarded by the Noldor for his skill and the Sindar for his will and what Vanyar we have among us for his devotion to his Lord! Such qualities are needful, and what he lacks he may learn for himself or heed the advice and assistance of loyal counsel, which his elder brother is willing to provide for love and duty. Let then the younger take his place, for he is the better choice!”
  * Finwë acts as though he was expecting this speech and flawlessly skips over the planned further rounds of formalized challenges to the part where he asks his grandsons a final time for their consent. They give it
  * Kánafinwë cedes his position as heir to his younger brother. Finwë calls up Fingolfin and Arafinwë to witness and to affirm Turkafinwë’s new position in the succession before the Noldor
  * The ceremony is concluded. People are ready to drift out of the strict attention they’ve given so far to socialize – they’ve all traveled too far not to take such an opportunity. Every Noldo of any real station is here, with Galadriel as the usual exception
  * Fëanor has only a few moments before everyone’s attention is lost entirely
  * Acoustics are an important aspect of architectural engineering, particularly for a throne room. Voices are made to carry from here and he knows how to make _sure_ everyone in the room hears him without seeming to have done so on purpose
  * “Enjoy your time with Ñolvo, Father,” Fëanor says, casually, politely, as though the words are nothing out of the ordinary
  * He can _hear_ everyone freeze
  * An instant – he’s locked eyes with his father, shocked into silence along with the rest of them, waiting-
  * Someone makes a half-strangled noise that might be the beginning of a word. Fëanor seizes the proffered opportunity and is momentarily glad, when he glances over sharply, that he doesn’t recognize this lord at all. One of his own people, or Fingolfin’s, wouldn’t suit
  * “Not discerning enough to disbelieve slanderous gossip?” Fëanor derides scathingly. No one’s said any such things as what he’s about to, of course, but why let truth inconvenience him when now they’ll all assume such talk just hadn’t reached them yet. “No good father ignores any of his children, nor loves one better than the others! That the High King has neglected the children of his second marriage in favor of his son from the first? The one who is the cause of such thoughts should be ashamed!”
  * He looks back over at his father, holds the glare for a moment, and then drops it to check in on his brother. Fingolfin is staring just like everyone else is but he’s also trying not to smile, or maybe cry, or both
  * Fëanor nods in goodbye, claps his shoulder because he feels like some kind of physical contact is probably called for in this situation but hugging in front of everyone would be _a lot,_ and walks away as fast as he can without looking like he’s doing so before anyone can start asking him questions



* * *

  * “Did you-”
  * _“No,”_ Nerdanel tells Anairë. Court isn’t being loud in it’s collective confusion, but tightly hushed with an undercurrent of apprehension. If she’d just walked into the room she’d think they’d all just received some terrible portent of doom rather than- whatever exactly that was
  * Her sons circle together in conference immediately, and the collective attitude displayed in their body language is the same as the court’s
  * But they have Aredhel with them at Tyelko’s left hand, and their spouses are clustered in as well, and Tyelpë and Idril, and Finrod is about to insert himself into the group between Makalaurë and Ambarussat, Amarië at his side
  * They’re not closeting themselves, not isolating because family matters stay in the family
  * They’re so far from where they could be
  * She wants to say that her husband is doing better than he could have been, he just stood up for Fingolfin and called him _‘Ñolvo’_ in front of _everyone-_
  * But also he’s run away
  * Nerdanel is trying to fight the feeling that her husband is little changed because of this, at the very least it’s uncharitable and she’s hoping that this feeling is also manifestly wrong
  * She exchanges a look with Anairë that says everything it needs to about where she’s going, and slips away from court
  * Fëanor is back in their rooms
  * He glances up when she enters. She sees the flash of aggressive obstinance- he’d been ready for someone he doesn’t want to explain himself to
  * “That was quite a statement,” she says, sitting down next to him on the bed
  * “It was important,” he says
  * “Who’s been saying…?”
  * Her husband gives her an odd look
  * “Ñolofinwë.”
  * “Yes, about Ñolofinwë.”
  * “No,” he says. “When we went to Pindost, after- before we came back together. He talked about his feelings. No one has been saying anything about him being neglected but him.”
  * “That was- about your _father?_ ”
  * “He’d better have listened,” Fëanor says darkly. “That is unacceptable behavior from a parent.”
  * She could be stern, or she could be gracious
  * “I’m glad to hear that from you,” Nerdanel tells him
  * He looks down at his hands
  * “I know it’s not something I cared about applying to him before,” he says. “But what he said…”
  * He trails off pensively
  * Nerdanel waits
  * “I hated him,” Fëanor continues eventually. “He has a mother and a father where I have had only the latter, and I thought he wished to take Finwë from me; and with that everything I had. But he only wanted to be loved, as I did. And I even with all our children and knowing the problems of apportioning time and care evenly amongst them all, and that the love of one did not diminish the love of any others- I was not willing to extrapolate. And then, it was habit, and I did not think to. Until Ñolofinwë told me why he would cross the Helcaraxë to follow me. I had thought it was anger. Spite.”
  * “That’s more you, Fëanáro.”
  * “I know,” he says. “If he had burned the ships and I had been left behind, that would be why I continued on. But he is far more different from me than I have always modeled him as. I _know_ I am not the universal experience, but-”
  * His shoulders slump
  * “You’re not the only one who makes that mistake,” Nerdanel says. “We all do, eventually.”
  * “So often?” he asks. “So consistently? I think not. I thought Ñolofinwë wished to usurp me, not stand beside me. He says he would have crossed to prove his loyalty, because he is my brother, and that is all the acknowledgement he has ever wanted. He spoke of the way Finwë favors me over all his other children. That is not something I had thought of before, either. It seemed my due that he would care for me so much, for would I not, for our sons? I would do more, even, to be assured they would all be forever safe and well.”
  * That thought could go dark places, and she doesn’t like it. Nerdanel worriedly reaches out through their marriage bond, trying to see if any hints of worse thoughts throw their shadows under the locked door of his mind-
  * Fëanor reaches back
  * It has been near three hundred years since the first rising of the sun and it had been almost fifty between that and the death of their son and it has been _so long_ since they have touched minds
  * He squeezes her hand and she’s crying and the door has been opened and he carefully offers up the thing he has been trying to lock away
  * _See,_ he says, standing with her at the edge of the great emptiness inside himself. _It has eaten my mother and once it pulled in my father and I fed it our sons and then in the end it took me as well. It will eat you, too, if you stay_
  * _What is it?_ Nerdanel asks
  * _I **don’t know,**_ Fëanor whispers, terrified and distressed. _But it has always been here and nothing has ever been enough_
  * Nerdanel tries to examine it. She’s never been naturally skilled or powerful in ósanwë, and the arts of the fëa are a mystery to her. Fëanor has enough power and both of them have enough determination that between them they can strongarm an approximation of someone much better at this than either of them
  * But that’s not much use for looking at yourself. It’s recursive, and she can’t be sure if she’s focusing on what her husband is trying to show her, or his feelings about it, or even if there is actually, truly, any difference
  * _Is it separately extant?_ she finally asks. _Or is it a metaphor?_
  * _If it was a metaphor then it would be mine and I would be able to control it,_ Fëanor says
  * Nerdanel is doubtful. Self-knowledge is not the greatest of her husband’s talents, and regardless knowledge and application have less skills in common than could be hoped
  * _It eats?_
  * _Nothing is enough,_ Fëanor tells her. He’s brought her attention here but he’s holding himself away, not looking at it directly. _I create and I think and I fight and I love and I hate and I make and **nothing** will fill it-_
  * A flash of brilliance; a stray memory and Nerdanel catches it, it’s a Silmaril and _‘Mother’_ is attached
  * She shows it to Fëanor, a wordless question
  * _I must live up to what my mother gave for me or else- if I am not brilliant, if I am not exceptional-_
  * He is not looking, will not look, at what he brought her here to see; the emptiness yawns and shudders and Fëanor is strained and panicky and Nerdanel does not know which is the reaction and which is the instigation, but she suspects it does not matter
  * _Or else what?_
  * It’s not a darkness, this emptiness. It doesn’t look like anything. It’s just _there_
  * She asks her question and the edge of it encroaches on their metaphysical feet like seashore waves and she can feel him trying to block off anger and defensiveness and cruelty as everything about him bleeds terror and he clutches at her and stares desperately
  * Nerdanel suddenly understands him very well
  * _You don’t have to justify your existence, Fëanáro,_ she tells him sadly
  * Something in him shudders, shatters; they’re in the midst of memory and thought: 
    * The Silmarils are three and full of Light. It takes power to contain such a thing, which is not meant to be held even when the holding is not in service of hiding it. Few indeed are those who can do such a thing – Varda Star-kindler, Aulë World-Smith, and Yavanna Kementári are the only who have proven they are able, with the creation of the stars and the lost Lamps and the Trees
    * And now Fëanáro Curufinwë Therindion
    * He cannot claim that he has created the Light but that is immaterial – he does not create the metal he forges either, nor the mineral sands that the Noldor use to smith gems
    * The Light is his raw material and that is the true secret of Fëanáro’s _silima_ ; that the base stuff of the Silmarils is not some newly-smithed kind of gem nor painstakingly sought out natural crystal but _Light,_ captured and frozen and smithed into the shape of crystal that will not fly apart under it’s own concentrated power once left unattended, striving back towards it’s natural state of motion and speed
    * It has never been done before and Fëanáro doubts it will be done again, he has done the unthought-of and the impossible and bent a fundamental part of Arda to his will and he can rest now, finally, surely
    * What could possibly be done that could outdo this?
    * Nothing
    * None other of the Eldar is powerful enough to do this. It has been extensive, exhausting work for _him,_ but he has proven himself _finally,_ there are none who can outdo him, no work that will outshine these, he will _not_ be forgotten nor overlooked, he is _irreplaceable_
    * Three jewels made of Light
    * (Three _míri,_ glowing like _náro_ )
    * Three jewels that are the greatest of the creations of the Noldor
    * (He has made one for each of them, the greatest of the Noldor: High King and true Queen and only son)
    * Three jewels that he has given himself to the making of
    * (The very first time he emerges wearing them, triumphant, everyone stares. Everyone covets. Everyone asks _‘how’_ and he realizes that he has wrapped so much of himself around them that he is _exposed,_ that he made them to prove himself but they are marveling, they are trying to _take this from him still-_ )
    * Three jewels that Varda sees and hallows against evil and mortality
    * ( _What is mortality,_ Fëanáro wonders, and it is Melkor who ends up answering it for him, who tells him of the Atani and how they will overtake Arda but for Aman
    * Fëanáro is distracted, in the moment, because the defining trait of the Atani is that they _die,_ that is what _‘mortality’_ means, Varda has hallowed the Silmarils against _his mother who he made them for-!_
    * He is _furious_ and that makes it easy to think that the Valar are as willing to replace them as they were as willing to allow his father to replace his mother, to replace _him-_ )
  * The emptiness is stronger than memory, stronger than thought. It howls and screams and Nerdanel blinks, fully in her own mind and body. Fëanor has thrown himself back onto the bed, hands clenched over his eyes. He’s shaking and he’s tried to shut his mind again but hasn’t managed it at all, only thrusting her out
  * She tips over to lie next to him and wraps herself around him, trying to steady him
  * _Fëanáro,_ she says. “Fëanor.”
  * He won’t stop shaking
  * She keeps holding him
  * “Fëanor,” she says again, after a time
  * “I did not realize,” he replies, voice raspy until he coughs to release the tension in his throat. He hides his face against her collarbone.
  * “Realize what?”
  * “Why I truly cared so much for them. Why I put their value above all, how I could still want them- I _do_ still, I simply have not spoken of it, because I _know-_ ”
  * She’s not happy to hear that, but now, she understands
  * “They are nothing more than what they are,” Nerdanel still cautions him
  * “I know,” Fëanor whispers brokenly
  * They lie together in silence for a time, minds open to one another as they have not been for so long
  * Nerdanel is floating in it, the quiet calm flow of their fëar together, when a thought-memory arises in her husband’s mind
  * It’s Finwë in Tirion speaking about Indis to another, and a report of Finwë from Valimar petitioning the Valar on the matter of remarriage, because he wished for more children
  * _Child-mad,_ Nerdanel thinks fondly; because it’s something all elves share but Finwë and Fëanáro after him have felt it acutely
  * But Fëanor’s memory isn’t tagged like that. It is connected to anger, and dismissal-
  * _I forgot,_ he says, looking back on these twinned moments with grief and understanding. And hurt, still; a dull rusted hunk of bitter anger that weighs down his heart. _I knew, and I forgot. I was not enough for him. He was the one to wish me replaced, not my siblings_
  * _He did not,_ Nerdanel refutes, and reminds. _Seven children we have, and wanting more has not diminished our love for any of them_
  * He doesn’t reply, but she feels him listen and not reject it
  * She has a theory- two theories, really. She’s not certain now is the time to test them but she doesn’t know if there will be a more natural, opportune time
  * Nerdanel gambles, and brings up a memory of her own – a piece of news in the midst of the remarriage proceedings, that Míriel was asked for her opinion and she chose to remain in Mandos
  * Fëanor flinches, full-bodied, against her
  * He does not pull away but she feels the surge of the devouring emptiness in response
  * Nerdanel braces the part of Fëanor that is scared of what dogs his steps and refuses to accept that it is himself, and stares down the part of Fëanor that is angry and hurting and grieving with all the love and compassion she has for him and says:
  * _That was a judgement on no one but herself. You are not responsible for her pain; and it was not about you_
  * _If I had been better-_ the anger and grief snarls
  * _You cannot make other people’s decisions for them._ _You cannot control what they do. You cannot coerce them into things, not if you mean to love them well. Including yourself_
  * _I was too much for her, I am too much for you, everything will fall-_
  * _I will not,_ Nerdanel maintains. _Nor will our sons, nor Fingolfin, nor Anair_ _ë; or any other of our family or our people. Perhaps I cannot save you from yourself, F_ _ëanáro, but nor is your downfall from this inevitable. It has been averted once by the love and grace that started us on this path; and every time after by your own will and determination, whenever you have extended a hand in friendship to your brother and checked your worst impulses for the sake of peace and understanding our family. This **need not be**_
  * Her exit from his mind is gentle this time
  * “It’s just you, beloved,” she tells her husband aloud, cupping his face with a hand. “I love you, and your mother loves you, and your father, and your sons. You are not alone, and you have not been abandoned. You will not be.”



* * *

  * There are elves in the dark halls who have been here since before Oromë’s arrival at Cuiviénen
  * Maedhros doesn’t like thinking about that. It gives him an awful squirmy feeling about the Valar, and Námo has _said_ how much he hates the suffering and that he often feels his kin can suffer from _‘out of sight, out of mind_ ’, and Maedhros _wants_ to think better of the Valar if only for his own sake-
  * Saelon is one of the informal leaders in the dark. They retook their mother-name once their death freed them from thralldom – not that they think of it as their mother-name. The different levels of name are, apparently, an invention of later generations, when the Eldar began to rear children in units smaller than _‘all elves currently living’_
  * Saelon’s grandparents were Unbegotten. It’s incredibly intimidating
  * _The eldest of our people to come to these Halls are here in the dark,_ Saelon had told him some time ago, when they had been one of the first, after Thaladis, to trust his company. _Those who died free remained where they were. Why would they leave? Their families were there. When we lived, we knew our ancestors remained close and watched over us. Only those of us who were captured and kept heeded the unknown call out of the west, because we knew that over the sea was where the Dread Rider did not go and that he would not follow us hence. If we returned to Cuiviénen, what assurance had we that we would not be retaken? When the Breaker has necromancies to call upon?_
  * Saelon knew where the Eldar were. So did Erethiel, who had lived through the division of Saelon’s generation into the Minyar, Tatyar, and her own Nelyar before her capture. So did Acharedan, a Tatyar five generations from the Unbegotten who had been Morgoth’s first thrall-smith. So did Taudhang, who is perhaps twice Fëanor’s age and refuses to claim a Kindred of Cuiviénen. So did Nírnaedhis, the only one Maedhros doesn’t have a place in the generations for
  * (There were six generations of elves, including the Unbegotten, before Oromë’s arrival. Maedhros is only eight generations removed from the beginning of his entire people and that is… a lot, to know about himself, when even the elves of his grandparents’ generation hadn’t known how many cycles of children had passed between them and the Unbegotten. They’d lost too many to Morgoth to even properly remember that their clan divisions had come two generations after the Awakening, not with it)
  * (Maedhros knows Námo and Nienna meant to make the elves who were arriving feel safe by staying away until they ventured out of the darkness themselves but why did no one _ask-_ )
  * It is Nírnaedhis who is braving the bright halls, now. Saelon had been the first of the eldest to emerge, and Taudhang soon after them. Maedhros isn’t sure who of the eldest he knows will be next, Erethiel or Acharedan, but he thinks the Tatyar smith might be lured by the potential of discussing craft with the dead Noldor of Beleriand. They remind him strongly of Mahtan
  * Bringing people from the dark has happened often enough that they all know what to expect. Maedhros has been here for every one of them, as have Thaladis and Fingon, and some selection of their Sindar or Green-Elf friends. Losereg is another given at this point – they haven’t missed any since happening upon Thaladis’s bringing up. They’re too interested in meeting new people, hearing about new places
  * Nírnaedhis knows what to expect, too. Saelon and Taudhang and Thaladis have spoken with her about how it feels to truly leave, and Maedhros has talked long with her about the mechanics of it, how they establish her control over the process
  * (Thaladis pushed herself through to breaking on hers out of determination. Saelon had thought long on it, after her return, and then abruptly walked themselves out without warning when Maedhros hadn’t visited for a while to find him. They are still the only two who succeeded in leaving the dark on their first try. This is Nírnaedhis’s third attempt)
  * So it is strange when Nírnaedhis emerges weeping from Námo’s welcome and he looks expectantly towards a connecting hall
  * Míriel steps out
  * Nírnaedhis sobs, making a broken little keening noise, and they are embracing
  * _The world was finally too much for you, nésincya,_ Nírnaedhis grieves over her
  * Fingon is urgently poking him while he stares
  * _She has a sister!_ he hisses
  * _Father never said!_ Maedhros protests, just as quietly
  * _Did anyone **know?** She was older than Grandfather, and **he’s** never-_
  * _Come here, indyo,_ Míriel says
  * They both look over, and yes, she’s looking at Maedhros, hand gently extended
  * She’s never spoken to him before. He hadn’t been sure she’d even known who he was
  * Námo has quietly departed
  * _I’ll just step out with everyone until you three are finished,_ Fingon says, capturing his attention again. _Aewenil and I have a discussion on the subspecies dialects of finches to continue. Don’t rush_
  * The farewell kiss he gives is gentle and comforting. Probably anyone else would have to be as close to him as Maedhros is to feel the possessiveness underlying the gesture
  * He tucks away the reassurance that no matter how the conversation with his grandmother goes, he will have love and understanding waiting for him
  * He waits until Fingon and the others are properly gone before approaching the reunited sisters
  * _Grandmother,_ he greets Míriel, taking refuge in formality against the uncertainty. _I did not know you knew who I was_
  * Nírnaedhis is scowling in angry confusion at him. She turns the expression on her sister, who is reaching for him, and then back
  * _Of course I know who you are, Maedhros,_ Míriel says. She doesn’t grasp at his hand, but rather trails her fingers down his arm, feeling. _I weave the tapestries to record the deeds of my family. You made me very busy, indyo, catching up to what I’d missed_
  * Maedhros feels the turmoil-broken edges of his everything and knows he is losing cohesion because _she **knows-**_



* * *

  * Míriel releases her elder sister, who tries to shake Maedhros out of his dissociating panic
  * It won’t work; she doesn’t _know_ her grandson, but she knows him. She slips her arms around him and holds him, eyeing her sister until she joins in the hug
  * He’s too tall for her to be able to cradle his head and murmur in his ear, but Míriel has been dead for some time and has often been in the company of Ainur. She knows how to speak, fëa-to-fëa, and not be overheard
  * (Her sister doesn’t know what he’s lived or how he came to be here. She won’t take the choice of that telling from him)
  * _You don’t need to run, indyonya,_ she tells him. _I understand, I do. You are safe here and I love you. I only did not speak to you because I was not sure you wished to speak with **me,** not that I despise you. I could not_
  * _You could,_ he counters, still panicky but more weary with the bitter resignation of being so convinced of his own sins
  * _I could not,_ Míriel repeats. _I know your father and your brothers from a distance, and I have grieved for them out of sympathy, but for **you** I have empathy_
  * _I am not your son,_ he replies. Conversation has forced him to retain coherence. His panic has been headed off. It’s being replaced with wary confusion
  * _F_ _ëanor has never wished for a true ending,_ Míriel says simply
  * The shadow of his pain is strong in him still; she can feel the matching longing ache in him as is in her
  * _Grandmother?_
  * _They say it was giving birth to your father that drained me of my life, that left me tired of will,_ she says, no longer keeping it private. Her sister deserves to know about the parts of this she missed, and it is hers to tell. _They’re wrong, indyonya. Ever have I tired of life. At Cuiviénen it seemed understandable enough, that the danger and the toil would leave me exhausted; when Finw_ _ë returned from Valinor to confirm what Orom_ _ë had promised I thought I had found my respite. But we came to paradise and I found great skill and learning in my craft and Finw_ _ë himself fell in love with me and still I felt hollow and empty and **tired –** and worse even than in Eriador and Beleriand which did not agree with me, for now the Valar were telling us that all was well and we had nothing to fear and that we would live forever_
  * Tears gather, as they always do, and the suffocating _weight_ that she has never been able to make others understand
  * **_Forever,_** _Simply contending with Arda Marred moment-to-moment was already so much_ _– how could I bear it till the ending of the world and even beyond? How could I awaken from sleep and face again how much there is to do, how much work there is to do to put things to rights, the futility of it all in the face of a broken foundation of our very existence? I would sleep long, looking for respite, but every time I would wake and beauty would be shallow and Valinor would be peaceful but we had left behind others in lands that were not and it was **forever,** it would **never end**_
  * He’s looking at her with a familiar hopelessness. Míriel knows it from the tapestries and she knows it from her own heart
  * _If I could feel so in paradise, then what hope did I have?_ she continues, quiet. _I tried. I tried to live. I took myself off to Vair_ _ë and tried to lose myself in pleasure of my craft. I married, in hopes that the bond could support and relieve me, that love would comfort me. I had my son and beheld him for the first time and he was so bright, so alive, and I could only despair and look ahead and see an eternity of this aching exhaustion and now it would be worse because I had birthed F_ _ëanáro and all I wanted to do was hand him to his father and sleep forever rather than giving what little I had to feed his fire_
  * _Love does not fix everything,_ her grandson agrees, pained
  * _Finw_ _ë is better off with Indis,_ Míriel tells him, because she needs someone else in this broken family she has created to know, even if Maedhros is in no better a position to pass this on to the people who truly need to hear it. _F_ _ëanor would have had a better mother in her. He should have welcomed her_
  * _He will not give up on you,_ Maedhros tell her. It’s nothing she didn’t already know, and she is as resigned to it as she is to the aching, tearing, despairing weight of having to exist at all. _I’m not certain he can_
  * _I would rather he did,_ she says. _As you would rather others leave you for their better happiness. I sought the Halls because Írmo and Est_ _ë could not understand **why** the idea of eternity was so exhausting, when the Eldar are meant to be a part of Arda; but even here it is expected that I will somehow care for living, one day. I can gather some satisfaction in work and little joy and optimism in the world working on the tapestries with Vair_ _ë, who does not push, but inevitably it fades and I am back to wishing I was not made thus. I think I could be happier as an Atani, if only for the possibility of being somewhere else_
  * Míriel reaches up to cup his face
  * _If the Void was true oblivion,_ she confides in him, hiding these words from her sister. _I would have joined you there_
  * Her grandson’s expression becomes something pained and grieved and longing and understanding, and he ducks down to hide his face in the top of her silver hair, holding her close



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My notes for the Nerdanel+Fëanor and Maedhros+Míriel sections were summarized “Multigenerational Inheritable Depression Manifests Differently in Local Grandmother, Father, Son”


	9. Chapter 8

  * Fëanor had been right at Pindost, when he’d predicted that Finwë was planning a full assault. He takes the occasion of the succession change to announce it
  * Fingolfin gets taken aside by his younger brother after the strategy meeting that closed out the event
  * “I know why we came,” Arafinwë “And I grieve with you for what you have lost, Ñolofinwë – but is this truly wise? To provoke Morgoth?”
  * _You’re the only one of us with any wisdom,_ Fingolfin wants to tell him, but he doesn’t have the context for it
  * “So, how are we doing this?” Anairë asks on their first day out from Barad Eithel. They’ve left together with Fëanor and Nerdanel and all their sons but the youngest two. Ambarussat and Rosfaloth have already turned south with Argon, Finrod, and Amarië to follow the Sirion down to their domains; but the rest of them are going in the same direction, more or less. It would be silly not to travel together
  * In another time, they wouldn’t have. They would have been exactly petty enough to ignore each other on the road, going the same direction at the same speed
  * “Production increase first,” Fëanor says. “Arrowheads, spearheads, and extra sets of armor. Swords for any who need them. You can train your new recruits while you’re supplying. Efficiency is key.”
  * “If you ask Idril where Gondolin-” Caranthir begins
  * _“No!”_ Curufinwë snaps, head whipping around to glare at his brother. “She has promised she will not! Do not pressure her to betray her father’s trust!”
  * “I was just _suggesting,_ ” Caranthir retorts, aggrieved
  * “Your conscientiousness does you credit,” Fingolfin says, letting both believe he’s speaking of them and not the other. Of such delicate misdirections are effective politics made. “Curufinwë, you would well relieve the worries of Anairë and I if you were to take her in for the duration. Pindost is strong fortress, but Himlad is further from the front.”
  * “Grandfather, I made it the entire way through the Valley-”
  * “And I wish you hadn’t.”
  * “Tyelperinquar will welcome the company,” Curufinwë accepts for his son. “It is a long journey to Mahtan’s forges.”
  * “Father-!”
  * “You are _not_ fighting, Tyelperinquar,” his mother says sternly. “You will help by supplying the armies.”
  * He and Idril ride off to a further area of the column to commiserate about the unfairness of it all
  * “I’ll be going over the fortifications in Aglon and Himring – I could take a look at Pindost, Anairë,” Nerdanel offers. “If you don’t mind hosting us for the duration.”
  * “Of course not.”



* * *

  * “They’re not going to go to your grandfather’s,” Aredhel says, later. They’re in Ladros, partway between Pindost and Himring, where Tyelperinquar and Idril will be sent onwards to southern Thargelion and Mahtan
  * Tyelkormo sighs heavily and flops backwards onto his bedroll
  * “They won’t,” he agrees
  * “They’re going to get themselves killed running off alone.”
  * Silence falls
  * Aredhel snaps out her own blanket. Huan _whuff_ s quietly from his place in the back of their tent, and she glances over at her cousin
  * He’s flung an arm over his eyes. The line of his mouth is tight
  * They do talk about their brothers, sometimes. Most often though, their silences say more than their words
  * “Curvo will be unbearable,” Tyelkormo eventually says. “But it will be worse if we don’t.”
  * _If we leave them to die,_ the silence says. _If we leave them alone and they run off and they are killed, and we were supposed to be there, and if they were not alone they could have lived_
  * Aredhel slams her pillow into place, tears prickling. She shoves herself into her own bedroll, and once she’s settled Tyelkormo has shifted as well, lying on his side to face her
  * Their silences say so much because this is a cursed kind of blessing, the ability to look at another and see the understanding and the shared pain of everything that lurks in your heart
  * Aredhel grabs his proffered hand, lying undemandingly halfway between their respective places, and they fall asleep with their fingers still enmeshed



* * *

  * _You’ve been brooding,_ Maedhros finally comments
  * Fingon had been wondering how long it would take him
  * _What will we do, when we are free to leave, if we are to be in this Arda for some time?_ he asks. He knows what _he’d_ like, or at least he has a fantasy he has been indulging in- the two of them, finally living openly together, with the kind of time and opportunity they’ve never had
  * He watches Maedhros carefully, and, yes. There’s the expected flash of a guilty desire uncomfortably suppressed
  * _Maedhros,_ Fingon pushes
  * _I will go where you go_
  * **_Maedhros_**
  * He looks away, furtively glancing about as though he expects someone to appear
  * _Let me rephrase,_ Fingon says, because he knows he’s right. _What part of Beleriand would you like to settle in?_
  * Maedhros stares at him in outright shock
  * _Don’t look so surprised,_ Fingon half-teases, trying to downplay the reaction. _You saw more of it than I, you are more the expert of the two of us_
  * _You do not desire the Blessed Lands?_
  * _I lived again in Aman for some time before coming for you,_ Fingon reminds him. _I would desire them for your sake, but you would not rest easy there_
  * _With you, I could tr-_
  * _Our family is across the sea,_ he gently interrupts, and Maedhros’s expression crumples into longing and self-recrimination both
  * _It is not that I wish to_ -
  * Fingon hushes him with a hand to his lips
  * _You do not have to justify your loyalty to me,_ he says. _I know it well- no, that is not a condemnation_
  * _I have spent too long placing them above all else_
  * He won’t argue that, Maedhros isn’t wrong. But that still doesn’t change how he is
  * _You would hate yourself more if you did not go, and I will not have that,_ Fingon says. _Besides, that’s my family, too. Just don’t leave me. I will not stand for so much distance between us, this time_
  * _I cannot be who they miss,_ Maedhros says
  * And this something Fingon _can’t_ argue, more than that he won’t
  * He can’t be who his family is missing, either. He cannot be Findekáno Ñolofinwion – he has already tried and failed
  * And their circumstances are not something that can be truly explained
  * (And the Noldor might have left for Beleriand united, but there is nothing guaranteeing that they will stay that way
  * There is some scant news from the living in the Halls, by way of the dead – the divisions of land are by necessity different, for there are more people involved in this Beleriand than in the one they had known, but the House of Finwë still clumps in it’s internal divisions. Aredhel and Celegorm are the exceptions, but it isn’t too surprising. She’d not been one to stay in his Beleriand, either)
  * _We are unrecognizable to those who have died,_ Maedhros continues. _Embodied again, you, they could believe. But I would not believe me, if I were expecting Nelyafinwë_
  * _I’m pretty sure I’m still going to glow,_ Fingon says, not willing to address these points yet. _Glorfindel glowed when the Valar sent him back, you remember me telling you about it? I’ll have to figure out the trick of toning it down, otherwise I’ll be useless for anything but a direct charge_
  * _As though you aren’t fond of them_
  * _Oh, shush._ _Well, how’s this – I turn off the glow, we take up new names, and we go fight Morgoth while pretending to be Avari. We’ve known Losereg long enough, I bet we could convincingly fake it_
  * _Treelit eyes,_ Maedhros counters
  * _Ai, you’re right!_ Fingon agrees, angling for overdramatic. _No help for it then, we’ll have to rove the lands, never using the same name or story twice!_
  * _I refuse to be Túrin Turambar, I am already cursed_
  * _You are **not,**_ Fingon reminds him
  * Maedhros smiles fleetingly. It feels like an apology more than a moment of amusement
  * _I think I would not mind staying away from my family,_ he quietly admits
  * This is surprising enough that it’s Fingon’s turn to stare
  * He hadn’t expected Maedhros to agree with the origin of his brooding
  * ( _Obviously_ they would go to Beleriand, reembodied. There is Morgoth to fight, and Sauron, and Balrogs and dragons and all manner of foul things. There are elves and humans to save; and orcs to free
  * Their family is there and they could not leave them unprotected, if they had the opportunity
  * But you can protect someone and never see them. This what soldiers do – die for people they never meet)
  * _I should not, I-_
  * There is a fearful tiredness in Maedhros that Fingon doesn’t think he has ever let himself acknowledge. His father weighs on him, his brothers weigh on him, and he has long wished to put them down
  * But that is not the Fëanorian way
  * (Fingon wonders, for the first time, if Maedhros’s suicide had been a way out of his family, as well. Alive, he was bound to Maglor. Merely dead, his father and all his other brothers. Dead and in the Void – gone, utterly gone, he was away from everyone he could ever hurt or disappoint or betray but also away from anyone who could do those things to _him_ )
  * (Everyone except himself, as always)
  * _I understand,_ Fingon tells him, taking his hand
  * He doesn’t much want to see his family, either. He has withstood the expectations and desires and requirements of them once already, and he has no particular wish to do so again
  * They would be even less understanding, here. Even what he could share with Aredhel does not exist; for she is in the Gap with Celegorm, not in Nan Elmoth with Eöl. There is no Maeglin Írission here to parallel Maedhros Fëanorion, no Lord of the House of the Mole to the Lord of Himring, no Traitor of Gondolin to the King of Kinslayers
  * And the _politics,_ the endless eternal _bedamned **politics**_ that have always stood between them-
  * Fëanor lives, in this Beleriand. He is not High King, at least not now, but in the end it does not matter – Maedhros could return to his family, could convince them of his past and his identity and Fëanor would still label him a traitor, for returning for a Ñolofinwian
  * He could go to his own family, could tell them of his past, and _his_ father would disown him, for abandoning them for a Fëanorian
  * Even _not_ telling them wouldn’t really change anything. Maedhros would be expected to fall in with his father and brothers, and Fingon with his, and they would be separated again. If they refuse, to stay together, even without further explanation, the day when they are both cast out will still come
  * Fingon has been estranged from his family for going on three thousand years, not counting however time passed in the Void; and still, that would hurt. Not as badly as it could have in his first life, when he still had some hope. But it does not make it better that he can see it coming
  * It will break Maedhros, in one of the few ways he has not already been broken, to face his father after everything and be driven away with rage and hate, to have the family loyalty turned against him when his brothers follow Fëanor and turn their backs on him
  * _You’ll always have me,_ Fingon says because this is all he can ever truly promise and the most precious thing he can give in the face of what they know will come, because for all the deflection either of them can muster, all the daydreams and fantasies and half-thought plans-
  * They both know staying away will not work



* * *

  * It pulls together quickly, Finwë’s grand plan
  * The Cavalry of the March and the Army of the East had always been ready to go, of course, none of them ever would have let it be otherwise. She and Fëanor may have more information than Tyelkormo and Aredhel, but they all have the same reasons
  * Fingolfin and Anairë had their core forces, being on the border, but they’d needed time to raise and train supplementary troops
  * The real hang-up in time had been waiting for Arafinwë to catch up. Finwë had already been preparing by the time he’d announced his plans, so Mithrim had the head start
  * They march on Angband in a vast host. It is a clear unclouded day when Nerdanel rides out from Himring with her husband, Lothlann gold and green before her and the army silver and red behind her and a Curufinwë at both her hands. Three days out they rendezvous with Caranthir and Erelind in their red and black and Tyelkormo and Aredhel’s storm and steel and the ground shakes with their combined passing
  * They see Fingolfin and Anairë’s people far before any details can be discerned. They are the heavens brought down, silver glinting off a sea of sky blue and the stars in a daytime Cuiviénen
  * Finwë comes up from the east, in silver and gold; Arafinwë with him, golden flowers flashing on absent Eärwen’s Teleri seafoam. Nargothrond is easy to pick out, those same golden flowers crowning the earthy cavern-snake of the hollow hills, emerald eyes flickering as the banners fly in the wind
  * (There is no sun-and-moon of Gondolin. Turukáno’s bloodied heart is hidden still in the mountains)
  * It is the nine of them at the front – Finwë and Fëanor and Fingolfin and Arafinwë, Nerdanel and Anairë, Tyelkormo and Aredhel and Finrod – as they advance together towards Thangorodrim, into the ashy skies and the dimmed light
  * Their efforts are obliged. They are met with an orc host vaster than any they have yet seen
  * Nerdanel is tall, as her father before her and her eldest son after her. She is strong from moving stone and carrying children. Where Anairë breaks from them and berserks off into the depths of the enemy Nerdanel stands a mountain in copper-washed mithril and steel. Her sword is as long as her husband is tall and it is a labor of love whose keen edge sings with every slice
  * Her family ranges out around her, anchored on the rock of her determination. Fëanor flits about, enchantments glowing in the gems of his pommel and armor; Curufinwë slashes at any and everything with deft footwork and the kind of control detail-work requires-
  * Out of sight, Makalaurë sings; Leithind’s knives return without needing to be pulled free-
  * Tyelkormo fights with Huan one side and Aredhel mounted on the other, blood up to his elbows and staining his teeth. Aredhel’s horse kicks an orc’s chest in; Aredhel lances another-
  * Caranthir swipes with the long blade of his glaive and the butt comes around to _crack_ against the skull of a werewolf. A twirl of the haft brings the blade back and under; Erelind’s shield blocks the worst of the disembowelment spatter-
  * Anairë tears by, spear in one hand and sword in the other. Fingolfin follows, screaming to coordinate the rallying push. He stops the blow of a warhammer with sword and shield both-
  * The sky lights up far to her left and the shout of _Balrogs!_ -
  * There is fire, and smoke-
  * Goblins-
  * Fëanor raises a white-glowing hand-
  * Curufinwë slips and falls and rolls out of the way of an axe strike-
  * The horns blow, Aredhel leads a cavalry charge-
  * Blood is baking dry on Tyelkormo’s face and flaking off where he snarls; his armor is the only not shimmering with heat-
  * Makalaurë is singing, of the sea and the sky and the storm-
  * Nerdanel crushes something only half-alive beneath her boot and the clouds break
  * The ground steams with the sudden cooling shower. Mist eddies around their feet and catches in deep grooves in the mud but their little corner of quiet is spreading as the hiss of the rain puts out the death-throes fires of the Balrog the Cavalry of the March had mobbed
  * Caranthir is leaning on his pole arm, looking out over the battlefield. Nerdanel lowers her sword and does the same
  * Finrod is leading a charge straight at the closing gates of Angband, chasing a Balrog it is clear he will not catch before the iron doors close behind it. Anairë’s standard is raised not far from him, nearly at the foot of the mountain; Finwë’s is planted near center field in the midst of silver armor being washed clean
  * The Noldor have won
  * She watches as Arafinwë’s horse picks its way towards them. Fingolfin, shield strapped to his arm and sword resheathed, tugs his youngest brother down with him as he slides off
  * “See?” he says to Fëanor, clapping him on the shoulder. He’s still winded, and he’s limping. Arafinwë must have picked him up to drop him behind the lines with the healers, before the battle turned so decisively. But he’s smiling widely. “Teamwork!”
  * “Did Tyelkormo slay that?” Arafinwë asks, looking at the Balrog
  * Her third son is pulling his sword free of the blackening, ashy corpse. It’s a dull, flickering red with heat; but no blades in this family would warp from such use
  * “Group effort,” Fëanor mutters, but still proudly
  * The area around the fallen demonic giant is littered with dead horses and elves. Aredhel is beginning to order the search for the living
  * One of the March Cavalry still standing is a young elleth, her hair gold under a coating of blood and burnt strands. Twin swords hang limp her hands as she breathes heavily, struck with after-battle shock
  * The archer she’d been protecting removes his helm and falls heavily into a seat in the mud
  * A moment of recognition- that’s Tyelpë staring wide-eyed at nothing-
  * Curufinwë goes _ballistic_



* * *

  * He’s still not speaking to Tyelkormo and Aredhel days later, not even at the victory feast in Barad Eithel where Finwë hails them and their score of survivors from the charge as Balrog-slayers, Tyelperinquar and Idril included
  * (“To a new century!” is the High King’s closing toast. “May we see three more and then thrice again in such glory!”)
  * “You are never traveling _anywhere_ without supervision _ever again,_ ” Curufinwë threatens his son and practically-adopted-daughter on their way home
  * After two years, Fingolfin and Anairë give into the inevitable and set aside the suite of rooms next to Idril’s in Pindost for Tyelperinquar and his parents. They’re there often enough enough that Fëanor and Fingolfin’s correspondence is full of grumbling about where Curufinwë finds the time to run Himlad, with all the travel he’s doing



* * *

  * The latest-come to the Halls, those who died after lingering under the care of healers, bring the name of the battle
  * _The Dagor Aglareb?_ Maedhros asks Fingon, puzzled. _Have we truly not been here longer?_
  * _Maybe the sun came up earlier?_ Fingon suggests, just as confused by the date the newly dead insisted on – F.A. 300, not F.A. 60
  * _The math doesn’t work, even accounting for potential differences,_ Maedhros disagrees. _It really took them that long to get around to it?_
  * They keep bickering about relative dating between worlds for a while. It’s better than more practical thoughts about what awaits them outside the Halls



* * *

  * Makalaurë sends out a report three hundred and five years after the rising of the sun to the High King and all three Princes of the Noldor
  * _‘Concerning a strange event in the vicinity of Amon Ereb-’_
  * He’s found the Edain
  * And he’s not very impressed with them, his account by turns baffled and backhandedly disdainful. Nerdanel writes him a scolding reply and tells her son that it’s just as well he sent them on further west if _that’s_ how he was acting towards them
  * Finrod is tremendously excited to receive them. Amras is more concerned about the practicalities of allotting them farmland, and where he’s supposed to pasture all these cows and goats and sheep
  * Amras, Arafinwë, Finrod, and the leader of the Edain, Balan-now-Bëor for his pledge of service to the King of Nargothrond, work it out between them – any who want to be settled farmers stay in Amras’s lands, those who keep livestock move into Arafinwë’s, and they meet in the middle in the aboveground territory of Nargothrond
  * Fingolfin, Anairë, Fëanor, and Nerdanel figure that’s the end of the matter. The mysterious humans have arrived, and history will continue apace with their heroic descendants and eventual peredhel children
  * Then Mahtan sends word that he’s received a delegation of an entirely new group of Edain, who came to inform him that they were neighbors now, have some horses and please introduce us to the dwarves. Mahtan introduced them to Azaghâl and sent the horses on to Tyelkormo and Aredhel, who have started buying up the new breeding stock for the Cavalry of the March to replenish from their losses five years previous
  * Fëanor can’t decide if he thinks he should be offended on behalf of his wife’s father, or if he approves of Haldad’s attitude
  * “They die so easily, how are there so _many_ of them,” he says to Nerdanel when a _third_ group marches up through Makalaurë’s territory and inadvertently causes some minor panic, as could be expected of the surprise arrival of an unfamiliar small army
  * “What do you _mean,_ your people can become pregnant on _accident!_ ” he further says when they go to Estolad to negotiate with Marach and his sons. “ _Many_ poor design choices have been made by a being purported to be infinite in wisdom, I want to speak to your healers.”
  * “Your _manners,_ husband,” Nerdanel reminds him, exasperated. The Marachin are, well, keen to fight, and unlikely to be put off joining the northern frontier merely on account of Fëanor acting like himself, but he should still _try_
  * “No one expects a craftsman to be quiet about flaws in a thing, Princess Your Highness,” Marach says in good humor as Fëanor takes himself off to find Edain healers to address his questions to
  * “People are not _things,_ ” Nerdanel tells him firmly. He smiles wider. “And I’m only _‘Lady’_ to you, if you must, Lord Marach.”
  * They keep an eye out for more Edain out of the east, but none come. Marach assures them that their three peoples were the only ones to strike so far west, chasing rumors of great light and gods who stand against the darkness
  * “Though that last was always Bëor’s bit more than mine,” he says. “Personally I haven’t much use for gods if they don’t bother to show up where you are. I just wanted to find somewhere better for my sons.”
  * “This one’s mine,” Fëanor tells Nerdanel in Quenya
  * Estolad becomes a town more of the Edain than the Eldar, much as Tumhalad and Tharbad Tathren have with the influx of Bëor’s people. Makalaurë eventually gets over his attitude towards the Secondborn, though he doesn’t seem inclined to befriend any of them. Leithind does, which isn’t surprising
  * Caranthir does too, which is more surprising
  * Haldad’s people have settled Thargelion, though they don’t account Mahtan their lord and mostly keep to themselves except to trade horses with Tyelkormo and Aredhel, so it takes a casual patrol to discover that a small company of orcs has slipped through the Gap and is about to massacre the last of his line
  * “You did very well,” Caranthir says as a handful of his guard join the original Cavalry patrol who’d called on him for reinforcements to pursue the orcs back north, hopefully into Tyelkormo and Aredhel’s waiting jaws
  * “Hn,” Haleth replies, sweeping a critical eye over her decimated log palisade
  * “We have masons, you know, you could rebuild in stone.”
  * “Go away, Elf-Lord.”
  * Caranthir goes away and comes back with his wife and five cartloads of bricks. Haleth’s torn down the palisade and is packing her people up to move
  * “Where are you going?”
  * “I hear you have a nice big lake,” Haleth says, because in this world Mahtan welcomed her father and let him keep his distance, and she’s been trading horses with Tyelkormo and Aredhel all her life, and her dead brother had always stopped for drinks with Magor and Amlach whenever he was in Estolad and come home with stories to share about Fëanor and the Malachin. She has no worries about otherworldly royal elves interfering with her people’s autonomy. In her experience, they’re either tolerable and distant, or familiar amusing annoyances. “Might try fishing. Suppose you may as well turn those carts around and offer them again when we get there.”
  * Pel Helevorn does end up with some very nice brick houses, and a famous horse fair. Haleth becomes almost as rich as Caranthir from trade. Every Yestare festival, he offers her ever more outlandishly lavish Noldorin jewelry as an insincere token of vassalage, and every year she rejects the gift with ever more ridiculously overblown insults, and they both have great fun maintaining the Haladin’s independence
  * (“I’m pretty sure they’re having an affair,” Makalaurë tells Curufinwë and Tyelkormo one of the years they’re invited. “See how Erelind’s looking at her like she can’t wait to have her repeat that when he’s-”
  * “Stop being a dramamonger, Laurë,” Tyelkormo scoffs into his brandy
  * “ _Please_ don’t say anything like this around Father,” Curufinwë pleads
  * “I won’t, but that parure is sized for our brother, not Lady Haleth,” Makalaurë says. “I can imagine-”
  * _“Stop,”_ Curufinwë moans)



* * *

  * Time moves so swiftly for the Edain, but so slowly around them. Years unwind in their presence, seasons flowing as wide languid rivers as much as thin rushing brooks. It is a fascinating experience for those they’ve come to live amongst, for Eldar for whom whole decades have long been the smallest relevant unit of time
  * Still, it feels as though so little of it has passed at all before Marach’s great-grandson is in Pindost, kneeling before their seats in the great hall
  * “Rise, Hador,” Fingolfin commands. “Lord of Ladros. May your tenancy be long and fruitful, your heirs many and loyal, your fealty eternal and unshakeable!”
  * Hador raises his head and smiles. They’ve become used to mannish faces, he and Anairë; but the combination of blonde hair and blue eyes still makes him think _‘Vanyar’_ before _‘Marachin’_
  * It’s a kind of relief that Hador is already married, as are those who have followed him here to serve. Plenty of elves are weak for fair features
  * Not that other appearances on humans have stopped things. There is a tragedy brewing in Dor-lómin, where Aegnor is years wed to Andreth daughter of Boromir. She is one year past half a century of life. Her brown hair is silvering and her face is lined, her peredhel children appear full-grown, and all will weep for the Wise Lady of the Land of Echoes soon enough
  * No one knows if Aegnor will survive his wife’s passing. His parents and siblings worry
  * Fingolfin wonders where he will be, when this golden shining man who has promised to them passes. Already his heart clenches at the thought, and Anairë’s as well, and they have not even known him five years yet. Fëanor and Nerdanel’s grief over Marach has only recently abated. It has left them with a new desire for life, but the _time_ it takes for the memories of a cherished human to cease causing anything but pain-
  * (Four years later, Haleth dies, and they have another example of the trouble with Eldar and Edain. Caranthir and Erelind plunge Rerir and Pel Helevorn into full mourning, and it seeps along the trade routes until all Beleriand has shed tears for her
  * It is a fitting end for such a woman, but it cannot bring her back, nor keep her in the Halls)



* * *

  * An announcement, distributed during Harvestide F.A. 427
  * _‘Of Fëanor Therindion Finwion, Crown Prince of the Noldor, Viceroy of the East, Lord of Himring, and Nerdanel Mahtaniel, Princess of the Noldor, Heir-Apparent of Kemensinqina and Thargelion, Lady of Himring, is conceived a child-’_



* * *

  * Nerdanel has had amilóri for each of her sons, impressions or premonitions that guided her naming of them
  * (None of them are simple)
  * Her most intense had been her first, because it was her first. She’d known to expect an amilórë, but she’d had no mother and Fëanor’s was dead and Indis wasn’t exactly welcome, so when she’d looked down at her newborn son for the first time and been overwhelmed by the sudden, utter certainty of his perfection for his place in the world she’d named him _‘Maitimo’_ in more than half a daze and ended up withstanding the quiet courtly mockery and the more common cracks at motherly blindness until Fëanor’s temper had silenced them, or at least forced all such talk underground
  * (Every time she’s heard someone sighing over his beauty, she’s had to shut away annoyance. No one has ever understood that when she’d said _‘well-formed’_ she’d meant his fëa, not his hröa)
  * Her second had thrown her for being so different from the first. She’d held her second son and faced a waking vision of an Elda grown, face streaked with ash, eyes reddened and clothes scorched as though with long work near open flame, holding a sword of shining gold. Nerdanel had remembered how her father looked after too long in the forge and she’d known her husband’s work tendencies and she’d named him _‘gold-cleaver’_ for the great works of smithing he would surely craft
  * (She thinks she only understands now, in hindsight, with the memory-dream to guide her. That was her son facing Balrogs and dragons and a burning Lothlann, the sun sung into his sword for the extra deterrent in a world where smoke choked light and living alike. _‘Golden swordsman’_ , she should have meant with that name. Makalaurë can mean either, with the right linguistics)
  * Her third had been different yet again, a sudden upwelling of consuming anger that made her want to snarl and yell and bite accompanied by what could only be described as a feeling of repetition. Confused, and still mad, even though she knew it wasn’t hers, she’d named Tyelkormo for the unheralded moodswing
  * (It wasn’t wrong, exactly. His temper does have a short onset and he is quick to act on it. But he is just as passionate about what he cares for, and never truly hides his headstrong nature nor his defiances. He refuses to be anything other than what he’s decided to be and will fight for it to the bitter end. There had been years of passive-aggressive tension between her third son and her husband that had ended in Tyelko running away to join Oromë, only returning after he’d been formally declared one of the Oromëndur and there was nothing that Fëanor could do about it; and even then he’d never truly rejoined the family until Morgoth)
  * Her fourth had been simple, baffling, and almost disappointing. Just the image of Carnistir grown, flushed with high emotion. There had been very little to go on
  * (Unlike Makalaurë, she still doesn’t understand this one. Maybe someday she’ll discover the context. She hopes it implies kinder things than Makalaurë’s had. At least Carnistir likes his name)
  * Her fifth had been a relief, after that. Atarinkë was easy
  * (But her meaning has been lost here, too, everyone going for the easy interpretation – even her son. She’d beheld him for the first time and seen him grown, delighting in a young Tyelperinquar. Nerdanel had been delighted in turn, seeing it, and warmly named him for his obvious love of his own potential children-to-be. He was always meant to be a father)
  * (Sometimes she wonders if picking something else would have been kinder. Fëanor had only passed on ‘ _Curufinwë’_ after she’d named him, and the kind of expectations people spin out of that combination-)
  * Her sixth had been two strong impressions in one – like Maitimo he would be most marked by others for his appearance, fair or not, and that he would forever be one of two. Nerdanel had said _‘Ambarussa’_ and then quite calmly and confidently told the attending healers and family that there was another baby coming. No one had known she’d been carrying twins before that point
  * (Her seventh had been fire, overwhelming; and a horrific unfamiliar sensation that had immediately sent her to fainting. By the time she’d woken up, everyone had assumed _‘Ambarussa’_ was for the both of them, and she’d not corrected them. Ambarussa was kinder, and the boys liked it, and the uncomfortable other name for the youngest had never come out until one fight after she’d already been stressed)
  * (She could name Telufinwë nothing but _‘Doomed’_. Not after feeling his death)
  * _Eight children_ is a lot of times to do this, but it means Nerdanel has plenty of experience. She thinks she is ready for whatever amilórë she will have this time
  * She is handed her daughter and she looks into her grey eyes and sees Maedhros with his unexpected sister huddled into his side, miserable and scared and hurting. He has his right arm around her shoulders, holding a cloak or blanket in place. His left hand is in her black hair, trying to soothe
  * Just a moment and it’s gone and she’s clutching her daughter tightly and she’s making a keening sort of wail and Fëanor is instantly at her side
  * “ _Melitsanya_?” he asks anxiously, putting his arms around them both
  * “I saw,” Nerdanel sobs, and chokes up
  * It’s customary for the family to attend during a birth, however many who can keep their nerve and follow directions from the healers. All her sons’ older siblings have attended their births, and in a dizzy wild moment Nerdanel thinks that hasn’t changed but Maedhros was only a vision, it didn’t really count-
  * Huan has pushed his massive head behind her, giving her a thick furred shoulder to lean into if she wants it. Tyelkormo is hovering around his haunches. Curufinwë and Caranthir, who have seen their wives through amilóri and know the kind of fear a parent can have for their child, have piled onto the bed and are trying to crowd close. Makalaurë has inserted a hand to lightly touch his newborn sister and he’s humming, calming her reactionary fussing to Nerdanel’s distress. Amrod is tidying up in the wake of the exited healers, who know better than to intrude on a mother-naming; Amras is standing stricken at the foot of the bed
  * Nerdanel meets his eyes and knows why he’s so distressed. His ósanwë is strong, it always has been, and he’s more than capable of picking up information through other peoples’ marriage bonds even though that probably isn’t supposed to be possible. He’s never attended a birth before, but it seems instances of foresight are also easy for him inadvertently share
  * “She was with Maitimo,” she tells the rest of their family. “She was a _child-_ ”
  * Makalaurë’s humming falters. Caranthir has grabbed one of her legs, the nearest available part of her, in distress; Curufinwë has a wild-eyed look that means he’s thinking of Tyelperinquar
  * Fëanor makes a low, wounded sound, and clutches them tighter
  * This is a cruel amilórë – she hadn’t known such things were possible until Umbarto’s. Is it a yet another tragic feature of the House of Fëanor or is it simply something no one speaks of-
  * Nerdanel doesn’t know what to name her daughter. Any allusion to her death is cruel, even trying to soften it by naming her for her youth. She will not reach adulthood. Nerdanel had seen her half-grown at _best_
  * “Then we will make the best of the time given us,” Fëanor vows, voice pained. She would be more surprised that he is not railing against fate and swearing to do more but she is holding a child she will have for at most perhaps thirty years, and then she will be _gone_ and they are not in Aman to welcome her return, they are in Beleriand and they have no way back
  * “Nelyo will take care of her, he’ll love her,” Caranthir says. He’s weeping, desperately taking in the sight of his baby sister. It doesn’t seem like he meant to voice that thought
  * Amras’s expression contorts briefly and there’s a brush against her mind and the thought _‘we’ll both look after her’_ that has the feeling of Amrod
  * Both her youngest children, Doomed; and her eldest lost along with them
  * Nerdanel can’t come up with a name. All she has is grief and anything she can think to say is sorrow and she won’t pass that on to any child of hers, she should have a good name, something to carry with her to remind her of her family and how much she is wanted and missed when they will be so long parted-
  * “Hánormelda,” she names her daughter, for the brothers clustered around them and the brother who will receive her someday, who will hold her and be with her when all else is lost to her
  * “This seems less kind now than I meant it to be,” Fëanor murmurs, and takes his turn. “Ñolórë I name her; and Hánormelda Ñolórë Fëanáriel I hail her, Princess of the Noldor and of my House.”



* * *

  * They stay close for a long time. It is hours before any of them care to talk to any other. The announcement goes out late, just barely qualifying as a same-day notice
  * They do not speak of the amilórë to any others



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'Hánormelda'_ means “beloved of her brothers”.
> 
>  _'Ñolórë'_ can be parsed into multiple compounding roots. Ñolo, “wisdom/knowledge”, is the obvious first element. The second could be interpreted as lórë “dream”, olor “vision”, or órë “foresight/premonition”. Fëanor meant it as a double-allusion to Fingolfin (in recognition of their repaired relationship and to end the naming war he instigated) and the extensive memory-dream that’s gotten them all here.
> 
> To those not in the know it will sound like he’s given his daughter an odd but very respectable and linguistically-complicated virtue name, which is pretty par for the course for Fëanor, who is _exactly_ the kind of linguist you’d expect a guy who started writing to do historical linguistics for his conlangs to invent.
> 
> To those in the _wrong_ know, i.e. his living sons, the first and obvious connection is to Nerdanel’s amilórë, which is at the very least an unkind thing to name a child after.


	10. Chapter 9

  * By the time Nírnaedhis does manage to corner him, Maedhros is mostly resigned to his fate
  * _Maybe Thaladis won’t ask, but **I** will, _his great-aunt demands
  * He’s been avoiding this ever since the first – still only – time he met Míriel
  * There are things that aren’t spoken of, in the dark
  * But now they are in the light; and those rules have always been flexible for family
  * _I only want to tell this once,_ Maedhros says, his last protest against something he truly desires
  * He wants someone else besides Fingon to look at him, and _know_ him



* * *

  * “I’m going to Ladros,” Fingolfin finally announces, giving in to his worry. “Curufinwë and his family should have been here by now, or sent word if they’d been delayed.”
  * Anairë and Idril see him off, Idril with more obvious worry than her grandmother. Curufinwë, Menelissë, and Tyelperinquar make these visits out of affection for _her,_ after all
  * Fingolfin doesn’t find them in Ladros. He spends an extra day among the Edain so Hador can attend to his people and have some brief time to simply be a father to Galdor instead of a Lord to his Heir, and have an evening with his grandsons Húrin and Huor. They’re growing up well, and eager to finally come of an age to squire with one of their father’s warriors, or to enter Fingolfin’s own service as their grandfather had. Hador tells them to think carefully on their options
  * Mindful of why he’s out here in the first place, Fingolfin sends one of his companions to report back to his wife before they leave Ladros to begin looking in Ard-Galen. It wouldn’t do to disappear from his destination without warning. No need to worry her like that
  * A week in, they pick up signs of something. The ground is scuffed, as by the fast passage of a large group, and a foul smell hangs in the air
  * They follow it, and come upon the scene of some skirmish. What bodies there are have been defiled, first by orcs and then by carrion-animals, but Fingolfin has a great dread in him
  * It is only confirmed when they find one of the corpses still bears an intact badge marking her as having been in Curufinwë’s service
  * Fingolfin recounts the bodies, and orders them buried, and hopes with no true optimism that they will not find a trail heading-
  * Hador joins him in his silent watch of the northern horizon, that evening. The trail was not hidden, and is clear in its direction
  * “The Crown Prince,” his friend ventures, once the stars are out, but the knowledge of what has transpired is too heavy for more words
  * They ride back to Pindost and Fingolfin composes the hardest letter he has ever written
  * _‘Brother, I fear the news I bear-’_



* * *

  * Fingon knows what has finally come when Maedhros finds him, trailing Nírnaedhis. These are the Halls – the only who can ignore the wish of a fëa to remain unfound is its Lord
  * _I’ll go fetch Losereg, then,_ Fingon says. _Where should we meet you?_
  * _The dim halls,_ Maedhros says. _Losereg?_
  * _If you don’t want me to, I won’t. I don’t think I was wrong to say that your people would be more understanding, but of those who have never come up from the dark, I think Losereg would be the best choice_
  * _I trust your judgement, on this. I will not be bringing many more than Thaladis, but- no one else, please? It is one thing when they **know** evil, but the Sindar-_
  * _Just Losereg,_ Fingon reassures him, and they part ways
  * It doesn’t take long to find them. Fingon merely has to linger until Losereg wraps up their current conversation – they come over without being prompted, looking expectant
  * _Maedhros and I are going to tell a story,_ is all the explanation that’s needed
  * They meet up with Maedhros in the dim halls. He and Nírnaedhis have been joined by Thaladis and Saelon. Fingon had honestly expected a few more people, but Saelon does make sense. Everyone listens to them
  * _I know that we are… perplexing,_ Maedhros begins. _That there are things we have not said, and their absence is evident. That there are things we have said about ourselves that seem that they cannot be true_
  * _A great many things,_ Nírnaedhis says acerbically. Saelon hushes her
  * _You do not lie,_ Thaladis says. _No more than any of us do. Yet you say that you are Princes of the Noldor, but the Noldor were not in Beleriand, and those who have since come have not recognized you_
  * _That. We…_
  * Maedhros looks at him pleadingly
  * _I’ve had to save him twice,_ Fingon tells them, because Maedhros will talk himself around what he means to say for a while yet if there isn’t forward momentum _now_. They were both born princes, both of them have been kings, but Maedhros has been covering his fears and his nerves with political speech for much longer
  * _The first time was off Thangorodrim, ten years after the sun rose and the greater portion of the Noldor arrived in Beleriand after crossing the Helcarax_ _ë. The second was in the first century of the Fourth Age, when finally I followed him into the Void where he had flung himself, to bring him back. I intended to go home, but Eru seems to have had a different idea, and so we awoke in Arda long before the times we had left it, and won our second deaths defying Morgoth. This seems to have changed quite a bit of what we knew, but Lord Námo is of the opinion that we are actually in a different Arda from the one we began in, and that we will be returned to it in time. Whenever that time may be_
  * _You’re still not lying,_ Thaladis marvels
  * _If it was a lie,_ Maedhros says. _I would have made it a happier story_
  * _You are here, though,_ she protests
  * _It was happy for others, or it was eventually,_ Fingon temporizes. _Maedhros lived long enough to know of Morgoth’s defeat and banishment into the Void. I remained long enough to know of Sauron’s_
  * _There can be an end to them?_
  * Saelon’s whisper is tremulous, and Fingon remembers – Saelon is the grandchild of Unbegotten. The time before the Dread Rider had not been so far behind the Eldar, then, in those early years at Cuiviénen. They had lived in hope that one day the Terror in the Dark would move on, would follow the changing seasons and other prey and leave them again in peace
  * They have seen so many taken by Morgoth. They have seen so many come to the Halls because of Sauron
  * Maedhros lunges forward and grabs their hand. His fëa lights with the fire he has rarely had and he is young again, he is Maitimo Nelyafinwë in a darkened Tirion standing with his father ready to go over the sea and he is the Lord of Himring, victorious Prince of the East and Scourge of Morgoth declaiming to the Lords and diplomats at Barad Eithel, sealing the Union
  * _I have seen ruin and I have seen wrath,_ he says, words ablaze and Fingon could weep for the joy of it, for this strongest moment of _life_ that he has seen in Maedhros in all their time in Halls. _I have seen war and I have seen woe. I have seen the depths of the iron prison and the heights of the Mountains of Tyranny. And I have seen them **broken!** I have seen Balrogs slain, and dragons too; werewolves felled and their stolen fortress sung apart! I have seen Thangorodrim shattered and the gates of Angband twisted open! I have seen Morgoth Bauglir in chains; and Sauron Gorthaur with him! There has been an end to them, and there will be again! Four centuries did I hold against them, until mine own crimes and sin overcame me! Once was I named the Scourge of Morgoth; and though never could I be the one to bring his defeat I could make him bleed! I could retake what he had conquered! I could slay all he set against me! I could defy him! I have escaped him, and I have outlasted him, and I will do so again! And this I did and these things the Noldor have done when we were cursed and doomed and exiled, when we turned on each other and rent what little remained to further pieces! Help we had in the end, aye, and it took the Valar to chain and banish him – but long has it been and long shall it be the Eldar who stand and struggle and prevail in the face of his peril!_
  * Saelon is weeping, openly
  * _A murderer and a Kinslayer am I,_ Maedhros says. _A thief and a liar too. Evil I have done of my own free choice, again and again, and I knew it for what it was when I did it. I have done evil enough that the same holy power that burned so against Morgoth did the same against me. But all he delighted in came to ruin, and Sauron’s own lust for power and his hubris created his downfall, and both were condemned to where I sent myself – and yet! Here I am, to tell you of this, of their fallibility, of their weakness! Easy it will never be, this fight, nor safe. But we are **elves,** Saelon, the Firstborn of the Children of Eru, who are made for Arda and to dwell within the circles of the world past its breaking and remaking into time unimaginable; and I can promise you that this Darkness that has plagued us in this the dawning of our eternity will seem but a swift-passing cloud shadow against the greater portion of our bright days under sun and stars_
  * _It ends,_ Saelon says, shattered hopes piecing together. **_It ends_**
  * The fire banks, but it is bright still, and warm
  * _It ends,_ Maedhros agrees
  * _We don’t know how or when it will happen here,_ Fingon says. _Things have changed. They’re better than they were, so far, so we can only hope that continues to hold_
  * Nírnaedhis is watching Maedhros with suspicion
  * _A Kinslayer?_
  * It is Thaladis who glares first, Thaladis who leaps to his defense
  * _And you have heard his thoughts on it! You have seen him and you have known him-_
  * _First the Teleri in their great city, the sister-people of the Faladhrim, for no reason but expediency and loyalty to a man mad with fear and hate,_ Maedhros tells her. _That time Fingon was with me, unknowing the initial cause but joining for his love and desire to protect me. All else he did not participate in, being dead, and would not have participated in, being not caught by an ill-thought and evil oath that was not binding, though I believed it to be so. The second Kinslaying I led myself, into Menegroth after Melian and Thingol had passed to the west, and so I shattered Doriath, one of the last safe refuges on Beleriand. The third again I led, and was against the Havens of Sirion, **the** last refuge, filled with those who had survived the flight from Doriath and the hidden fallen cities of the Noldor. A fourth time I led, in the aftermath of the final victory, and I chose it rather than surrender or judgement, and thereafter slew myself and took my fëa into the Void where Morgoth had been cast and Sauron would come, for the Void is the proper place for the great enemies of Arda_
  * _Which you are **not,**_ Fingon insisted
  * _So not exactly kin, unless you have left out some important details,_ Nírnaedhis says
  * _All elves are kin,_ Saelon reprimands immediately
  * **_I_** _have not been a good person, **you** have not been a good person, _Thaladis begins to argue. _In the bright halls are many we have killed-_
  * _Well they’re clearly not going to do it again,_ Losereg waves them all off. _And just as obviously there has been judgement and there will be restitution. They are our friends, and our family, and there is no quarrel or hatred or anger between us. Now, I was promised a story, and I really **must** An entirely different world!_
  * And that, it seems, is that
  * The others look expectantly at him and Maedhros
  * _What would you like to hear about?_ Fingon asks. _We’ve quite a deal of heroics between the two of us. We both managed to be kings, even!_
  * _How did you get him out?_ Thaladis demands with the intensity of a burning desire long denied, and Fingon launches into the familiar story
  * He is describing Thorontar when the rapt attention of their circle is broken
  * Maedhros is only marginally swifter to rise in alarm than Nírnaedhis, at the sight of Míriel weak and wailing and weeping pain into the Halls
  * _Finwë! Ai, **Finwë-!**_



* * *

  * The first time they find orcs bearing weapons signed with the Fëanorian star, Nerdanel fears her husband will swear himself to vengeance and self-destruct trying to tear down Angband’s gates. The fire in his eyes is terrible and all-consuming
  * They have lost a second son to Morgoth
  * She sends for Tyelkormo and Caranthir; and Makalaurë, if anyone can catch up to him. He and Leithind have taken to traveling, circulating news amongst the different groups of Eldar and Edain. All she knows for certain is that right now, they are somewhere in the south
  * Tyelkormo is first to arrive, being as close as he is and used to the journey besides. Seeing the evidence of that orc-sword, a tremble takes his usually-steady hands
  * “We’ve been seeing others like this in Lothlann,” he whispers to her, a horrifying secret finally confessed. “For _months;_ I couldn’t- I _know_ I should have-”
  * She hugs him, and he holds her back tightly, and they weep together
  * Caranthir arrives with a heavily-armed host of mixed Noldor and Haladin, grim and hard
  * “When are we marching?” he demands
  * They have no plans to, and finally Nerdanel sends for Fingolfin, because Caranthir and Fëanor are encouraging each other and her threats and Tyelkormo’s refusal to move the Cavalry of the March unless there’s an actual plan with a hope of working are keeping only a tenuous hold on them at best, and even that is slipping day by day
  * Makalaurë has not yet responded nor arrived when a frantic, exhausted rider from Barad Eithel begs entry at Himring’s gates
  * An orc host had suddenly attacked the fortress-city. Aegnor and Angrod rallied from Hithlum; Fingolfin from Dorthonion
  * Fingolfin shouldn’t have had a difficult time. Not with Hithlum free and strong behind Barad Eithel and everyone’s forces fresh
  * But the orc lines had broken on Fingolfin’s charge and too late they’d realized they’d been surrounded and they’d been driven towards the walls and Finwë had sallied out to rescue his son-
  * Fingolfin made it into the city
  * Finwë did not
  * Finwë held the line for his son to rally his remaining host behind to retreat to safety and Fingolfin crossed under the walls into Barad Eithel and Sauron threw off his enchantments and revealed himself before Finwë and-
  * There is nothing that will stop Fëanor now. Nerdanel writes a single line of warning to Anairë, still in Pindost
  * _‘His doom is come upon him’_



* * *

  * He knows bitter hopelessness and despair. He knows guilt and grief. He knows self-loathing and resentment. They have been long-familiar companions, and he died with them, because of them. They are steadfast, these emotions. They hold so tightly, if he is not careful to evade them
  * Love has been a better friend, of late. Relief, and peace. Amusement and happiness too. They had been gone too long, and to have them again is a kindness
  * Anger has been brief, flaring and then smothered by those ever-faithful dogged hunters on his heels, by self-recrimination and shame and memory
  * But Maedhros _rages_ into the bright Halls, blazing with the lost light of the Trees and the inheritance of the sons of the Spirit of Fire and his own will and power
  * He draws every eye and all are arrested, none can look away. He is bold and brilliant and the Avari and the Sindar startle to see quiet, retiring Maedhros so and the long-forgotten _Andûrnor_ races through them but the Noldor seize with shock and dismay and _Fëanor_ swells in counter-
  * Behind him comes someone familiar, broad of shoulder and strong, gold against the black of his hair, kingly and glowing with otherworldly power-
  * Fingon Mallendor or Fingon Tar-Maltya he has been known as in the Halls, depending on the language; but next to the flame of his companion the glow seems lesser-
  * _The Princes!_ someone cries, finally, in recognition
  * About him the Noldor kneel in apology and respect and Maedhros sees none of it. The victorious Lord of Himring strides past in fury, furred cloak billowing out behind him and copper circlet bright with rubies, sword at his hip and breastplate dark but for the shine of the eight-pointed star; the Valiant High King at his side with the sweeping train of his damask robe wide behind them both, the gold of his heavy adornment glowing in the light they both carry, sapphires and diamonds magnifying and throwing it back
  * _Is this a revolt?_ the Lord of the Halls asks mildly when they come before his throne
  * It jolts Maedhros enough to look about himself, to notice that swept up in his anger he no longer looks as he had upon his death, battle-worn and bearing no devices of allegiance for the theft of the Silmarils from the victorious camp; and to notice the vast crowd that has trailed them, who linger now outside the open doors of the Hall of Receiving where they two stand before him
  * _We may have overdone it,_ Maedhros says privately to Fingon, mild embarrassment and shame niggling for a brief moment at the way he has gotten away from himself
  * _Nm,_ Fingon replies, the calmer anger of his attention focused squarely on Námo. His state robe shortens into the resplendent surcoat of war and his other finery slips away but for the intricate gold ornaments in his hair and the jeweled crown that entwines with them. The sound of horses in battle and the smell of burning flesh roils about them for a moment
  * Maedhros finds he cannot banish any part of his own appearance, though as the wrath surges back as he forms his next words, he finds he does not care
  * _No, Lord Námo, it is not,_ he says tersely, fighting to keep an even tone. _We have heard of Finwë, and of the tardy news of Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar and Menelissë, and memories have found us strongly_
  * _I cannot help them from here,_ the Vala says
  * The remembered visage of the Lord of Himring twists and flickers, trying to be Nelyafinwë captured-King and Maedhros thrice-Kinslayer both
  * _I know,_ he seethes. Angband presses around them, the darkness of the Iron Hells whistling with the wind on Thangorodrim carrying the burning choking ash of Ard-Galen become Anfauglith. The floor runs with the blood of Menegroth and the iron-stained salt of the ocean air of Alqualondë and Sirion hangs heavy, humid in the heat of Sauron’s dungeons that Curufin and Celebrimbor _should not have to know-_
  * _‘When you are more desirous of returning to life than you will be regretful of leaving death,’_ Námo quotes at him from a conversation long past. He raises a hand- memory fades, but for Maedhros and Fingon as they had been on the eve of the Nírnaeth. _I had wondered what would do it_



* * *

  * _“No,”_ he begs. “No; Ammë _don’t-_ ”
  * “I cannot leave your father to this alone,” his mother says, and there are tears in her eyes as well and her words are heavy with regret but she is still _leaving,_ she is still walking right into death and she will be _gone-_
  * Tyelkormo pushes Nerdanel away and the surge of anger is so familiar
  * “And what of Elór?” he demands, furious and tearful but careful about his volume. His sister is twenty-seven she is a _child_ and she has already been so _scared_ since their father has been swept up in his own rage and the rest of them are grown, and they have lost before, but their _sister-_ she is not so far and to hear more yelling in the family- “You would march off with him and leave her orphaned?”
  * A terrible grief comes over his mother’s face
  * “She is almost as old as she will ever be,” Nerdanel whispers. “I know the face she now wears. Tyelko-”
  * He spins and storms out, slamming the door behind him. Himring is stone, and so he does not rattle the walls, but the sound of it booms and echoes and it follows him as he flees from the death that is coming, from the doom that no one is _fighting-_
  * _She **knows,** _is the worst. His parents _know_ what had been done to Nelyo, how he died. They all have learned something of brutality from Beleriand, from orcs in battles and raids. He is no longer the only of his brothers to have seen a wrecked corpse. But he and his parents will forever be the only ones who saw _Nelyo,_ who are haunted by the specter of the proof of what a loved one has suffered, who have reality as the base to their nightmares for what is befalling Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar-
  * _Tyelperinquar_ who he’d thought he’d saved, Tyelpë who should have been _safe-_
  * And now the list will be Nelyo and Curvo and Tyelpë and Atar and Ammë and Moryo the _idiot_ who is going to Angband with them and _Elór_ who has always been doomed and Amrod too who will someday burn and how long could Amras possibly survive after losing his twin-
  * And who will be left then? Him and _Makalaurë?_ Of all of them, just _two;_ if Makalaurë does not disappear into the woods and the wilds following his wandering wife as their father has always been worried _he,_ Tyelkormo, would do; if Makalaurë does not simply fail to come back, one day, with a letter from Nargothrond or the Falas or Nevrast to bear the ill news of an ambush-
  * And it will be him, just him, to hold all of East Beleriand, to sit alone in Himring, to protect Erelind and Rosfaloth and Caranthir’s three daughters and Grandfather Mahtan-
  * It is cold, outside, as it always is in Himring. It is loud, as it has been for so long now, with the preparations of the army that will be leaving in the next few days
  * If anyone calls to him, Tyelkormo does not hear them. His world is falling away piece by piece, in excruciatingly slow motion, chips of ice falling, shattering against stone. His feet are taking him to Huan, he knows this path, it is the only thing he can see beyond himself
  * It is so clear, this future; so clear and _bright_ and no one is fighting it, no one is trying to turn away _how can they,_ how can they look their ends in the face and _not_ try to escape-
  * How can they all _leave him like this_
  * Tyelkormo buries his face in Huan’s ruff and _screams_



* * *

  * **_Obviously_** _you’re not going alone,_ Thaladis says, later, once the crowd that had followed them has dispersed and calmed, after Maedhros and Fingon have patiently withstood the apologies of the dead Noldor and made their own to the Sindar and Green-elves they alarmed with their passing. _We are Lordless Elves of Beleriand and Eriador, what care do we have for Aman? For the elves of the West? For foreign shores and foreign rulers? Why would we subject ourselves to them without any we could trust to speak for us, who would be listened to by them? They already respect **you**_
  * A great number of people agree with her
  * A _great_ number of people



* * *

  * It is the second time he has marched from Himring to Angband. This time the army is smaller, but they are more driven. They are thirsting for vengeance in a way that none of them ever have before
  * They will assault the iron prison. They will attack the besiegers of Barad Eithel from behind. They will revenge Nelyafinwë and Findekáno, Finwë and Curufinwë, Tyelperinquar and Menelissë. They will make Morgoth and Sauron _pay_ for everything they have done, in this time and in the time that has not been-
  * There are legions of orcs pouring out of Angband, far greater in number than has ever before been seen. Greater than the army of the Dagor Aglareb, and their force is smaller than what they had assembled to win that-
  * And there are Balrogs, towering over the regiments and the werewolves and the singular hideous monsters of Sauron’s creation, billowing smoke and sparks. The sky is thick with clouds and ash and the light is hellish, it makes the silver of their armor and the buckles of their tack shine slick blood red, and it reflects on the mountain-
  * The side of the mountain moves
  * Crawls, slug-like. Stone crumbles under iron claws. Vapor steams from nostrils and between serrated teeth. Earth charrs and moans under vile weight. Eyes shine yellow and huge-
  * _Oh,_ Fëanor realizes, a sharp moment of terror cutting through the consuming rage he has lived in for weeks; the Noldor horses begin to buck and scream as Glaurung the Golden lumbers into a charge towards them. _So that’s what a dragon is_



* * *

  * Maedhros had not known what to expect from being re-embodied. He had asked after the process, and Lord Námo had told him only that the fëa built the hröa
  * He had assumed that meant his body would be much the same as he had imagined himself in the Halls- that of Maedhros, dispossessed and disgraced Lord of Himring, Self-Slain and Kinslayer
  * But he awakes in the Gardens of Lorien without pain
  * It’s so novel a sensation he shoots upright, and marvels at the ease with which he moves
  * And stares at his hands
  * The left is strong, and as he had noted before without the lingering chronic pain of fifty years of being so broken in body that only Morgoth and Sauron’s wills had prevented his death. The bones are straight, the joints are not inflamed, and he bares scars still but they are relatively faint, as though with long and successful healing, and speak only of his battles, not his tortures
  * The right is-
  * Fingon had saved him at the cost of his right hand, but he could have severed the entire arm for all the use Maedhros ever had of it afterwards. The shoulder had been wrecked beyond repair, and barely able to support the weight of what remained. It had needed to stay braced to remain properly in place, and it had only been with that complicated brace that he had just about been able to manage one-handed that he had also been able to wear a cosmetic prosthetic hand, made of the lightest alloys Curufin had been able to devise or trade for. No matter it’s lightness, the various permutations of the prosthetic had always left him in pain, and he was in pain with or without the hassle and additional pain of putting on the brace, so far more often than anyone else had liked he hadn’t bothered with either
  * This right hand should not be as light as his left, but it is. It is mainly iron, chased with copper along the joints and palms and at the wrist, and detailed in gold, but the iron has been folded through with traces of mithril to prevent rusting, and the moonlight filtering through the leaves makes his hand shimmer with stardust
  * There are no straps or other connections that he can see or sense- his flesh simply stops where his hand and wrist had been severed, and the metal takes over
  * He reaches over with his left hand- the metal is as warm as his skin. He feels it will not freeze in the cold, nor overheat in front of a fire, though he has no actual proof of this
  * The right hand flexes with as little thought as his left, and proves just as dexterous in movement and grip
  * He’s holding his new wrist and staring when he feels Námo’s presence fade in next to him
  * “How-” Maedhros asks without looking up
  * _Your fëa remembers having two hands, but you do not think of yourself as having both,_ Námo says. _You would have returned with only the one, even as you shed your bodily pain and most of its traces, and in time it would have seemed a poor thing to have a fully capable arm with no hand to make it properly functional. I spoke to Aulë_
  * “Surely he had questions,” Maedhros says
  * _Mahtan left you Kemensinqina, if you were to return before him,_ Námo tells him. _Whichever path you chose, he would be part of it_
  * “Whichever path?” Maedhros asks, wary
  * _You could go to Kemensinqina and take your grandfather’s place there,_ Námo says. _Or else you can do as I know you have thought of, and go across the sea, and resume your war and your defiance and your long defeat_
  * Maedhros looks at him, finally, and sees that he has a sword across his lap
  * _This is Naxaskatar, the Chain-breaker,_ Námo says. _It is the other thing I asked of Aulë, a weapon to strike against Sauron and his necromancies. If you do not go, it will be sent to another of the House of Finwë_
  * “And why would I forsake the Blessed Realm in favor of perishable and Shadowed Beleriand?” Maedhros challenges
  * _Because you are a King, Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol Fëanárion,_ Námo says. _And not a smith_
  * “I am no king,” is an automatic response
  * _High King of the Noldor you have been named,_ Lord Námo says, and this is no longer a simple talk in the Gardens. This is a Doom. _And a King of the Noldor have you ever been, King of the East and King at the side of your most-beloved royal cousin and King of the House of Fëanor even when all else was lost. No crown you bore and all titles but ‘Lord’ you eschewed, but you are of the Ñoldori and your true craft lies not in metals but in the arts of state, of speech and of war. If ever you deny this you deny yourself, and bring upon yourself the pain of lessening and the restlessness of self-made chains. A King you are, and a King you ever shall be; whether it be High King of the Ñoldori and of the Sindari and of the Moriquendi in Aman who leads them in peace and safety, or whether it be King of the Returnèd Sindar and Green-Elves in Beleriand who leads them in war against their most-hated Enemy_
  * It had never been in doubt, for Maedhros, that re-embodied he would return to Beleriand, with or without the blessing of the Valar, and fight
  * But he kneels before the Judge now, and accepts his new Doom
  * He feels Námo’s hand upon his bowed head
  * _You are Maitimo, for you are well-made with strength and virtue for your trials; and you are Teravakúmando, he who has passed through the Void; and by decree of Eru Ilúvatar Himself are you Óravantaimo, the mercy-given,_ the Doomsman names him. _And you are King_




	11. Chapter 10

  * The Gardens of Lórien are full of the hushed words and movements of an unprecedented number of reembodied elves
  * Fingon spares no time nor care for his surroundings, nor for any helping Maiar of the Gardens who may come to assist him, and plunges into the trees
  * He has been reembodied before, he has no need for anything but-
  * Maedhros is not far. He finds him on his knees before Námo and skids to a stop at the edge of this small clearing, catching himself on a tree as he hears a Doom proclaimed for the second time in his existence
  * Námo looks up at him, a hand still on Maedhros’s head
  * _Properly minded,_ he says. _This Doom should be lighter than the previous. But I do not promise victory, nor ease. You have lived this fight before, and you know the might of what you face_
  * Fingon’s breath catches; he tries to gather himself
  * _Are you truly so surprised, Astaldo?_ Námo asks him, and Maedhros’s head jerks up. _You are known to me, both of you. Also do I know those who have accompanied your return. As much as I wish for healing and peace and a time when my Halls are unneeded, I do know an army when I see one, and **this** host would march to war for good purpose and in full knowledge of what they do. They may even hasten the end of these fraught times, if we are fortunate_
  * The Lord of Mandos leaves at some point after that, but Fingon does not know when, because Maedhros is staring at him and he is as he has never been before, strong with the trials of Beleriand but fair with the grace of Aman, and he is _here-_
  * Fingon runs to him and they crash together, Maedhros catching him around the waist and burying his face in Fingon’s hip, Fingon flinging himself down atop him and it is not like the Halls where an embrace this close melds their edges there is light cloth and hair and skin-
  * _“Kánya,”_ Maedhros sobs. _“Kánya-!”_
  * Fingon runs his hands through Maedhros’s hair, across skin textured with faint and faded scars, over unmangled bone and muscle-
  * There is a whole and healthy shoulder under his left hand and he is scared to hold too tightly- “Does it hurt?”
  * “ _No!_ No I am _well-!_ ”
  * The fierce kiss only feeds their mutual desperation and they cling to each other until they are dizzy with lack of breath, but can barely part before beginning again, and again-
  * “Please,” one of them begs. “Please please _please-_ ”
  * Their faces are wet with each other’s tears and it is dizzying, consuming, to have a body of more than memory, to have tears that are truly new, to have a heart that beats and to have lungs that breathe and muscles that flex, nerves that buzz and skin-
  * Fingon’s hand meets metal, abruptly, when he reaches up to where Maedhros has tangled his hands in his hair to keep him close, in the kiss. He jerks back in surprise
  * Maedhros lets him disentangle the hand and inspect it
  * “I was so used to not having it, Lord Námo said, that I would not have come back with it,” Maedhros explains. “He told me he _‘spoke with’_ Lord Aulë. I presume he means that he told him what we have lived.”
  * “Can you feel anything?” Fingon asks, trying to tickle the metal
  * Maedhros frowns slightly in concentration
  * “Not particularly,” he says after a moment. “Pressure. Perhaps temperature, if it were to be far enough from the warmth of a body. But I cannot feel your skin.”
  * He sounds sad enough about that that Fingon lifts the metal hand to his lips and kisses the palm
  * Maedhros smiles at him
  * “You can do my hair,” Fingon informs him happily, and the smile widens. They have simple enough clothes, right now, and no jewelry. His hair is loose in the way he usually doesn’t keep it, if only because having to take out his decorations before bed every night only to put them back in every morning would be such a production
  * “I will make you some new adornments,” Maedhros promises. “I may have no outstanding skill at goldsmithing, but I know how to work it; and I have been informed that Grandfather has left me Kemensinqina to run upon my return. We would have to stop there before leaving regardless.”
  * Fingon hums thoughtfully. Kemensinqina is a bit out of the way for what they had – admittedly, tentatively – planned; but with all their family across the sea it is likely the best place to acquire proper clothing. They could perhaps ransack the family estates in Tirion for any possessions that have been left by their parents, but the finery of Aman is not necessarily fit for Beleriand. It is much warmer in Tirion, for one
  * “Crowns too,” he says. “I _did_ hear what Lord Námo said about being King, Maedhros. And our Moriquendi friends might be fronting us so that they have spokesmen, but they _are_ doing it to keep from being dismissed. Appearances are important!”
  * “I abdicated,” Maedhros grumbles
  * “Only for the Noldor!” Fingon says brightly. “And if you truly think our friends from the dark will turn to _anyone_ else for orders in war, you are sorely mistaken.”
  * “I have been a general for centuries; I have no problems there!”
  * “If it makes you feel better, we can call you _‘káno’_ instead of _‘aran’-_ ”
  * “ _You’re_ Kánya,” Maedhros mutters rebelliously
  * “-but Lord Námo is right, and you will still be a king.”
  * “ _You_ are my king.”
  * “And you were mine, for a time,” Fingon reminds him, leaning in
  * “Technicality,” Maedhros argues
  * “High King of the Noldor, when I left Lake Mithrim,” Fingon disagrees. “High King of the Noldor, when I took you from that cliff-face. High King of the Noldor, when first I asked you to marry me.”
  * “Presumptuous of you.”
  * “ _‘Presumptuous’_ , he argues! As though you are never overly familiar with your claimed liege!”
  * “Do you take offense, my King?”
  * Fingon puts his fingers under Maedhros’s chin and tilts it up
  * “I may have to, if you insist on such impertinence-”
  * _“Kiss him!”_
  * They jump, startled, and nearly knock heads
  * _“I found them they’re flirting!”_ Thaladis yells into the trees, hands still cupped around her mouth
  * _“Thaladis!”_
  * “You are,” she says, unrepentant
  * “You don’t have to _comment_ on it,” Fingon complains
  * “I absolutely do, the sky is on fire but if _you’re_ not worried about it-”
  * The sky-?
  * “That’s the sunrise,” Maedhros says, and nudges Fingon to get off him
  * Fingon sighs, but clambers out of his lap so they can stand and find the others. The sun _is_ new to them, after all. He remembers being alarmed the first time he’d seen the stars fade out and give way to red, too



* * *

  * The sun does not rise in the northwest, and so something is very wrong
  * Tyelkormo is safe in Himring, at least. Whatever is about to befall them out of Angband, he will be safe from it, at least for a little while
  * Aredhel rousts a company of the Cavalry of the March, and sends riders out to the satellite camps, holding her grief in the back of her mind. Tyelko will not be surprised to hear that things have gone poorly in the north, but she still wishes that he could have been spared this
  * She’s actually grown to like her uncle, since coming to Beleriand. It helps that he and her father have come to some kind of understanding, maybe even friendship; and that Fëanor has had room out here in the east to simply be, to not be dogged by politics and courtiers and Tirion
  * (Probably, also, that he truly is the head authority, this far from Barad Eithel. But he’s been less of an ass about it than he would have been in Aman)
  * It won’t be _right,_ a world without Fëanor and Nerdanel. No more right than a world without Findekáno and Nelyafinwë
  * A low dark mass is moving towards them, far enough away on the horizon that details are lost. Aredhel lines up the cavalry
  * They hear the horses before they can see the riders; and horses are generally not creatures of the Enemy-
  * The lead rider is stooped over the neck of his horse, helmless, armor deeply battered
  * Aredhel urges her horse into a gallop and catches Caranthir before he slides off his mount. His breaths wheeze, and are somehow too dry and too wet at the same time
  * He reeks of smoke and blood, and his gloves are charred through. Burnt flesh clings wetly to the leather
  * She wheels around, cousin laid limply across her lap, and yells for a healer



* * *

  * He awakes to screaming
  * He stumbles out of the cot he’d been laying on
  * Swords are his least-favorite weapon, but they are straightforward and effective
  * His hands are agony, but there are orcs storming the camp-
  * _“Go back to bed!”_ Aredhel screams at him. _“I’ll run you through myself if you make me tell Tyelko-”_
  * She skewers an orc and whirls on another
  * Caranthir puts his back to the wall of a stable and fights until his legs give out. He tries to steady himself on a hand and bites his tongue bloody holding in a scream
  * He muzzily realizes, what could be seconds or minutes later, that by now he should have been killed
  * There’s less noise, he also realizes, but not because he’s losing consciousness or focus. There do actually seem to be fewer orcs around
  * Aredhel hauls him to his feet by his armpits, and usually he’d object but-
  * _“Idiot!”_ she hisses at him. _“Stupid! **Fëanorians-**!”_
  * “Angband,” Caranthir wheezes, and starts coughing violently. Aredhel lets him fall forward onto her shoulder and pounds his back until he hacks up something thick and slimy and disgusting that leaves a slick coating on the inside of his mouth
  * “Too many,” he manages to continue, voice hoarse but breathing easier. It’s still not as good as he should be. “So many. Orcs. More Balrogs. New thing. Breathes fire, some kind of… gas. Big. Heavy. _Teeth_.”
  * “Haven’t seen anything like that,” she says
  * “Went right for-” he chokes up, but it’s not the fault of anything in his lungs this time
  * The monster had gone straight for their center line. As though they’d been _expected_ to turn up. They had surprised no one, and the Enemy had been more than prepared
  * They’d been set up. Manipulated, with the perfect bait
  * _“Stupid,”_ Caranthir agrees with her. “Stupid stupid _stupid-_ ”
  * “Moryo-”
  * “Right for Atar and Ammë,” he tells her, the pressure of tears building up despite how bone dry he feels. “Don’t- didn’t- couldn’t _see-_ ”
  * It had been too big; and the fires and the gas and the screaming, of horses and elves, and then the orcs who had turned to face them, and the Balrogs-
  * So much of the army they’d brought had died. He remembers calling the retreat, of trying to hold a line and _hoping_ but being the highest-ranked to leave the field, to lead everyone away with a horde on their heels and so many wounded
  * Aredhel holds him tightly
  * “We haven’t seen them, either.”



* * *

  * The Halls of Mandos are on the westernmost shores of the world, very near to the shallow strait of the Sea of Ekkaia where the black waters never come far above the ankles of any who would dare to walk across to the Doors of Night and the Void beyond
  * Tirion is on the opposite side of Aman, in the pass through the Pelóri. Kemensinqina is north again of that
  * It is a long way to walk, and there are a great many of them
  * Some are easy to organize – those who have come up from the dark have long had leaders of their own, and can quickly pull together into ordered groups. It’s harder for those Sindar and Avari who died free of Morgoth, but they eventually sort themselves out, sometimes with assistance from the others
  * It is a long way to walk, and Maedhros hates how they are _stared_ at
  * Few enough elves have left the Halls into Aman. He knows why, now, that the dead of Beleriand and Eriador by and large have had no interest in living in a foreign place without any of their kindred to join them
  * So they are a novelty, in both foreignness and numbers, not just for the fact that the famed dead princes of the Noldor have returned
  * It is like wanting to tear his skin off, enduring these eyes of Eldar who have moved so far west into Aman. There are not many of them, but it is all the worse for the knowledge that the further they go, the more of them they will encounter
  * “I am very ready to be gone,” Maedhros mutters to Fingon a few days in, once they have passed the largest gawking group yet. It is not all bad, the elves of Aman have no reason to fear scarcity and so have been generous, always ready with offers of food and better clothing than what simple things are provided to the newly dead
  * Fingon takes his hand and squeezes it in agreement, and reassurance
  * They are more than halfway to the husks of the Trees, which Maedhros has never seen in sunlight before, when their traveling host is halted by the _boom_ of air clapped by great wings
  * Eönwë alights before them on the road and Maedhros clamps down on the urge to flinch away with less success than he wished to have
  * _You are summoned to Máhanaxar,_ the Herald of Manwë informs them all, looking regally out over the group. _There is much to discuss, and-_
  * His eyes fall on the two of them, on _him,_ and Maedhros seizes in fear because he _knows_ what the Maia is seeing-
  * Eönwë’s expression is grimly set, and suddenly cold
  * _-you will **explain** yourselves_
  * He is gone as suddenly as he had arrived, and Maedhros hides his shakiness and reassures everyone with his best smile when they come with hesitant, anxious questions because the Ainur they know are Morgoth and Sauron and their monstrous minions and if he shows fear it will sweep as a plague through all those who have trusted them to keep them safe in this strange and dangerous West
  * They are outside Valimar far too soon
  * It is evident that word of their arrival had been sent ahead; Valimar is bedecked for the occasion in the blue and gold of Finwë. The standard of High King Ingwë flies before the gates; they have a welcoming committee
  * It is time to pretend
  * “Grandnephew,” Ingwë says warmly to Fingon, before bidding them to rise. He offers a hand to Fingon to help him and Maedhros’s hold on his composure is taking all his concentration to keep it from fraying any faster than it already is but he knows slights when they are offered to him, what is he-
  * With Ingwë is a man he knows from his grandfather’s forges. Kemensinqina has sent people as well, and they stand behind Ingwë with the High King’s steward and a few others, who carry boxes and long bags
  * The man from Kemensinqina looks uncomfortable and embarrassed. He is bearing a box as well, but it is not so finely decorated, and what cloth he can see in the arms of others is not so fine-
  * He knows that shade of red. They have been brought proper clothes in which to stand before the Valar
  * “Come,” Ingwë is saying, gesturing towards a curtained pavilion. Maedhros steps forward-
  * “Ah, Prince Nelyafinwë. Your people have set up on the side, there.”
  * The people from Kemensinqina are starting towards him but Ingwë is motioning Fingon on and he can’t, he _can’t;_ they have not been apart since-
  * _He will be fine,_ he tells himself, and forces his sedate and unworried walk towards the smaller pavilion in Kemensinqina’s dark green and copper and silvery-grey. _He will not die, all is well. Morgoth is across the sea and there is no danger in Aman-_
  * Nambaturco – he’s remembered the man’s name, finally – starts apologizing as soon as the curtains fall behind them, for the lack of decadence, for the lack of finery, for the lack of anyone of higher dignity-
  * “Truly, all is well,” Maedhros lies, but only about the fact that he is not in sight of Fingon, not over the accommodations. This is a large tent in Aman outside of Valimar, pleasantly warm and appointed with pillows and food and cool water and looking glasses and other delicate things that would not survive actual weather
  * “We have done our best,” Nambaturco insists. “And we are none of us courtiers of any note. But there is _one_ place in which we can be certain you will not be outdone!”
  * They had definitely noticed the slighting
  * As others lay out the fine clothes brought for him, Nambaturco gently sets the box he’s been carrying down on a spindly table and opens it. It is lined in Fëanorian red velvet, and nestled upon it is a crown. The gold glows against its backdrop, highlighting the entwined copper and thinner iron and mithril strands. White opals flare and dazzle in the light, offset by rubies
  * “It is a beautiful piece of work,” Maedhros compliments, and doesn’t want to put it on
  * “Lord Aulë let us know about the metals he was using, Prince Nelyafinwë, for your gift,” Nambaturco says proudly. “We have matched it with many options-”
  * It’s a compound box, there are hidden drawers and a second layer below the crown, full of rings and necklaces and earrings and armbands and bracelets, all in gold and copper with iron or mithril accents, jeweled with opal drops and many more rubies and stamped Stars of Fëanor
  * Maedhros smiles and accepts them graciously and eyes the selection of clothes that have been brought for him and tries to assemble, in his mind, an outfit made from these pieces that he could fight in
  * The delegation from Kemensinqina has no one who is used to dressing royalty, or nobility, or really anyone at all. He can make his choices of clothes without having to fight them overmuch – a tunic with plenty of metallic embroidery, sturdy tooled boots, an odd-length red robe that comes to his knees that can he wear open like a coat. It is decorated with his father’s star in the way he had favored wearing it before Angband, before becoming Head of his House, with copper to offset and highlight the silver
  * It’s harder to maneuver them around to his side on the matter of jewelry. He foregoes all the rings and earrings with no explanation (it is harder to grip a sword wearing them; an enemy will rip them out) and accepts one necklace done entirely in metal but for the thin slices of opal replacing the usual silver in the star on the pendant, and then a few more that he loops around the belt that now holds Naxaskatar
  * It is perhaps not wise to go armed before the Valar a Kinslayer. But he has this sword by the permission and gift of Námo and Aulë; and his nerves might break entirely if he faces the likes of Manwë and Varda without a weapon
  * “Nelyo?”
  * Fingon’s voice is deceptively light but still such a relief. Maedhros urges the people dancing attendance on him out. Nambaturco is the last to leave, courteously holding a curtain open for Fingon to enter before stepping away
  * Fingon’s smile is just as strained as Maedhros hopes his has not been, and it drops immediately as soon as they have privacy
  * Maedhros tugs him close and holds him against the sight of the bright blue robes High King Ingwë has provided
  * “He doesn’t know any better, I know he doesn’t,” Fingon mumbles, lightly panicked, into his shoulder. “They’re Father’s colors and of course he’d assume but I _can’t_ I-”
  * Nothing Kemensinqina has brought Maedhros is in any shade of blue. They know Fëanor well there
  * But there is a red sash with embroidered silver stars that are not quite Fëanorian ones that match well enough with the silver-spangled Ñolofinwean fabric Fingon has been forced into, and Maedhros fetches it, settling it around Fingon’s shoulders as a carefully-folded stole so that there is, at least, not so _much_ of the triggering blue in the edges of his eyes
  * It’s not truly enough, but he feels Fingon relax a touch all the same
  * Fingon sniffs, trying to pull back tears and snot
  * “This is-” he says shakily. “We can work with this, unity between our houses, show of favor, Grand-uncle has been-”
  * He fumbles in his sleeve, and pulls out a handful of gold ribbons
  * “I wanted you to do my hair,” he says mournfully, and tries to laugh it off. The Vanyar have already been at Fingon’s hair, and it is very elaborately done with gold wire and ribbons and beads in a style he would never have chosen for himself. It’s topped with a well-crafted but incongruous silver and gold crown
  * “Do mine instead,” Maedhros says, and snags a chair. He’s never been one for ornamentation in his, the color has always been enough decoration. But there is symbolism here, and he wants something of Fingon’s besides
  * His love has had much practice braiding hair, and the ribbons go in quickly and snugly. They match well with the aesthetic Aulë seems to have set for him, which is more than can be said for their quick addition to Fingon’s outfit. It bothers Maedhros, that he can’t do better
  * Their eyes meet in the mirror once he’s finished. Fingon looks fragile and stressed; Maedhros’s is reminding himself of his last days in Beleriand
  * “I wish I was going armed,” Fingon says quietly
  * “I wish I wasn’t going at all,” Maedhros replies
  * Fingon drops his hands to Maedhros’s shoulders and leans forward to kiss the top of his head
  * “I won’t let them hurt you,” he says, and Maedhros knows that’s not something he can promise, but Fingon has pulled him from Angband and has pulled him from the Void and will certainly come for him again, if it is needed
  * Success is not guaranteed. But he has a very good track record
  * Maedhros reaches up to grasp Fingon’s hands with his own
  * “I love you.”



* * *

  * His mother has been holding together as best she can, but Indis is no warrior. Command of the siege has fallen to him in his father’s-
  * _Dagor Bragollach,_ Fingolfin realizes bleakly, when he is called up to the walls because the eastern horizon has stayed red far past sunrise. Ash and smoke are blowing on the wind towards them, and even from this far, the glow is baleful
  * And getting closer
  * As midday approaches, they can tell there is something coming towards them out of the east. It is huge, and low, and can be nothing but an army
  * There already _is_ an army camped outside their gates, and this one seems far larger
  * Fingolfin orders preparations. The soldiery of Barad Eithel, expectant since early morning, springs into immediate action. The ramparts are manned, the anti-siege weaponry is rechecked and evaluated, arrows and ammunition are restocked-
  * A little closer, and they can see that there is a smaller vanguard ahead of the approaching army. By the scale of them, next to the Balrogs and monsters in the main body, they must all be orcs. Scouts, or messengers, or elite troops-
  * The vanguard does not slow and their besieging army opens to receive them, forming a corridor-
  * Fingolfin grips the stone of the wall with fear and apprehension because he knows this maneuver, knows the way the opened ranks are closing behind the smaller force that is flying no banners but they are closer now and this is the same trap that _he_ had ridden into
  * _ÑOLOFINWË!_ Fëanor-and-Nerdanel yell into his mind, calling for help, and he flinches only at the strength of it, not in surprise. There is dampness on his face from something else than watering eyes in the caustic wind from Angband
  * His father had stood on this wall, and seen _him_ ride into the jaws of the Enemy, and ridden out to save him; come to his aid as Fingolfin had not entirely hoped would happen, because Finwë loved Fëanor best and would have risked anything for him but it had not been so long since Fëanor had made his strange ultimatum, had thrown down the gauntlet and challenged their father to _do better_
  * Finwë had ridden out to save him and now he is-
  * His brother is surrounded, and his wife who is as a sister, and Sauron is on the field, and Fingolfin has dreamt a death he once had, riding out into the Bragollach against an Ainur
  * He is Ñolofinwë Finwion, and he will never betray his brother
  * _I love you,_ he thinks to Anairë, and hopes that some power has enough pity for them for her to hear it, because she is in Pindost and that is too far for them, even with a marriage bond



* * *

  * They are losing; they have been losing since their first sight of orcs
  * But he is Fëanáro Curufinwë Silmarilndo Therindion Finwion, and if he must lose, he will take everyone around him down with him
  * ( _Not Nerdanel,_ a part of him separate from this battle begs. She has stayed with him when she had every reason to leave, she has stayed with him past even when he showed her the devouring dark, she had faced it and told it it would not take her and she would not let it take her sons but Nelyafinwë had already been lost and Curufinwë was taken to rouse his anger and he fed Morifinwë to it without a second thought, he has lost _three_ sons-)
  * They are pressed on all sides and they are a remnant of the army that they had been but they are fierce fighters, all of them. Barad Eithel is close but they cannot fight an entire army but he is the Spirit of Fire and he could do worse than to die to save some of those he has dragged into his idiocy-
  * He turns to face whatever is coming up on his left and freezes, his blade at Nelyafinwë’s throat
  * His son is staring at him with wide, scared eyes; next to him Nerdanel chokes-
  * He has found an impossibility, a miracle on this battlefield; this is grace unlooked for and more than he had ever dreamed-
  * Fëanor drops his sword, reaches out-
  * The front hooves of a warhorse slam down between them and Fëanor scrambles back, out of the way
  * It is Fingolfin on Rochallor, and his brother is-
  * **_Traitor!_** roars up from the depths of his soul as the treachery of his father’s favorite replacement strikes down at Nelyafinwë; Fëanor has lost his sword but he has hands and arms still he can _pull-_
  * _“Run, idiot!”_ Fingolfin yells at him, turning away from Nelyafinwë for a few seconds to kick him off and
  * The illusion shatters; or rather Fëanor’s delusional hope does, for his son does not have talons that can rake through horse-armor as though it were paper
  * His brother has ridden out to save him; has cleared a way into Barad Eithel for their retreat; has placed himself between the worst of his brothers and Sauron wearing an uncanny mockery of his son’s face
  * Sauron’s talons catch on something in Fingolfin’s armor; he roars and strikes again
  * Fëanor has lost his sword, and so he turns and flees for safety, trusting his back to his wife and his brother
  * Nerdanel comes through the guarded gates behind him
  * Fingolfin does not



* * *

  * Máhanaxar is a perfect circle of massive thrones. There is no place in which you can stand and not have your back to at least two of the Aratar
  * Fingon wonders if the Valar understand just how threatening that is
  * The Aratar, the greatest of the Valar, are eight – Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, Aulë, Yavanna, Námo, Nienna, and Oromë
  * Námo, Nienna, and Aulë they are fairly certain of. Fingon would have them at their backs, but it is Manwë and Varda who are High King and Queen, and they must face them. It is Ulmo and Oromë they cannot see instead, and he knows that this is responsible for at least a portion of Maedhros’s ill-concealed terror, that the Valar who favor the Teleri and the Sindar are behind him
  * He is holding Maedhros’s hand tightly. Maedhros had tried to keep a distance from him, had tried to placate the fears Fingon knows he has by implying no one stands with him, but the Valar would not be fooled by that. It is better that Maedhros be close, and have that sliver of perhaps false safety, than be alone with his terror and self-recrimination
  * The Aratar have been silent since they two were announced, and Ingwë and the others were sent away to wait for the business to be done
  * Fingon can feel the weight of thoughts passing between the Valar, and has been trying to lend some of his steadiness to his cousin. This silence is a slow torture to him, and if it lasts much longer Maedhros will-
  * _I am not best pleased,_ Manwë finally rumbles
  * “Understandable,” Fingon says, mouth suddenly dry
  * _You have been judged and answered by an authority higher than mine,_ he continues. _And so we will not concern ourselves with that_
  * Apparently this does not reassure Maedhros; his shoulders somehow tighten even more
  * _You intend to return to Beleriand?_
  * “We do.”
  * _And why should I approve this thing?_
  * Well this is uncomfortably familiar
  * “Are we not free to leave, my Lord?” Fingon asks, keeping his voice steady with a prodigious effort of will
  * Manwë sighs. From him, it’s a strong, warm wind; the invigorating kind of late spring just before the overbearing heat of muggy summer
  * _You are,_ he says. _But the newly-returned deserve their reward_
  * “They would rather return home,” Fingon says, and then because he is bold and daring first and foremost: “Did they not deserve peace and safety before, Lord Manwë? Or was it simply that no one was willing to bestir themselves for it?”
  * Máhanaxar is silent and Maedhros’s fingernails are digging into his hand
  * _They were offered passage_
  * “Some of them,” Fingon argues. “Some of them were born after. More of them died before the offer was even thought of. But regardless, why should it be contingent on where they live? Arda is your responsibility, is it not? Why should some of the Children of Eru live in danger simply because of the part of Arda they cherish? I will not argue for a perfect safety – there are things of Arda that are great and mighty and unmarred that are not safe. The sea. The storm. The mountain. The wild boar, the bear, the wolf pack, the stag in rut. Hemlock and belladona and datura and larkspur. There is beauty in them too, and sometimes it is for the danger of them! But Melkor called Morgoth, your kinsman, is no part of Arda. Yet you have let him sit and plot and corrupt for long ages, and even after the Trees and after he revealed himself false in his regret and his reform, you have not stood against him!”
  * _We must care also for Arda itself, Findekáno Astaldo Ñolofinwion. It is not merely the Children who need safeguarding, but the animals and the plants and the stones_
  * “And he has corrupted them as well!”
  * _And is it so easy for you to judge, you who did not live to see Beleriand sunk?_
  * “Neither have you,” Maedhros speaks up, barely more than a whisper
  * Manwë turns his attention on him and he shakes; Fingon presses against him, trying to offer comfort
  * _But we have seen the mountains torn down and the valleys pulled up,_ the Lord of the Valar says. _We have seen the seas boil and overflow with the falling of the Lamps; we have seen forests burn and stone melt. We know well the damage our fights may cause. Where is the good in subjecting the Children of Eru to such a thing, Maitimo Nelyafinwë Fëanárion now Óravantaimo?_
  * “The _justice_ is in defeating Melkor,” Fingon continues arguing. “In preventing him from causing more harm! We the Children cannot do so ourselves!”
  * _But yet you would march out to your defeat_
  * “Someone has to fight!”
  * _If they remain here, they will not fall to harm. The more who go to Beleriand and Eriador and other lands beyond Valinor, the more who suffer, and the problem you claim to wish solved is compounded by your own actions_
  * “If they go, they may save those who might otherwise fall to Shadow. You know of us and our deeds, fair and foul; and so you know the lengths to which evil will go! What it takes to stop it! Nothing will be solved by sitting here in Aman!”
  * _You are hasty, and overbold_
  * “I have never claimed particular wisdom,” Fingon says stiffly
  * _Perhaps you should try_
  * Maedhros rips his hand away
  * Fingon snatches for it but Maedhros has already stumbled forward and Fingon honestly cannot tell if he meant to kneel or if his knees have finally given out but Maedhros collapses before Manwë’s throne, nearly doubled over on the ground
  * “Please,” he begs, voice rough and quavering. “I know what I am. I know I have no right to demand, and perhaps even less to ask. But I lived Angband and I have lived Beleriand and I lived the War of Wrath. Better fifty years of terrible battle that can be escaped by fleeing far enough than uncounted millennia of persistent fear and dread in a Middle-Earth under Morgoth’s dominion, when you know that no matter where you take them, your children will live and grow and die under Shadow.”
  * Manwë looks down at him and Maedhros flinches further into the ground and Fingon’s hands fist as his sides
  * _The Helcaraxë is broken,_ the King of Arda says. _The Pelóri have been raised and the water-way is confounded by the Shadowy Sea and its Enchanted Isles. You are free to leave, though I would prefer you do not; but I will not lessen the protections of Valinor and those who live here simply to ease your passage_
  * “And what of aid for Beleriand and Eriador?” Fingon demands, because it is important
  * _We will deliberate, and you will know our answer when it is revealed to the rest of Arda, Findekáno Astaldo_



* * *

  * _My lord has killed a great many elves_
  * It is casual. Conversational
  * He will not let his guard down
  * _They should have been no different. But Maitimo had the mark of the Void on him, which I am sure you can agree is exceedingly odd. A product of some experiment of his father’s, perhaps?_
  * He is silent
  * _But no, of course not. For there is Findekáno to consider as well. Findekáno, child-prince of Tirion. Findekáno, always consorting with his cousin_
  * _Findekáno, who yelled in Sindarin to his cousin, whom he named Lord of Himring, a fortress not yet built. To his cousin, who understood him, in a language not known on those shores they had never left_
  * “And what do _I_ know of such strange claims?” Fingolfin challenges. “So strange that they can be naught but lies.”
  * _Oh, but I think you do,_ Sauron smiles. _And you are going to tell me **all about it**_




	12. Chapter 11

  * Anairë had not needed the burning northern sky to tell her what had come. Not truly
  * She had wondered, when Curufinwë had not been late in Ladros. She had her suspicions, when her husband had rushed to the aid of Barad Eithel
  * She had known, when Nerdanel’s note had come from Himring
  * Their doom has come upon them all
  * There are only so many ways to come into Dorthonion – through the Pass of Anach, through the Fens of Sirion, through Ladros
  * Argon holds the Fens of Sirion, though he is fighting an army to do so. The Pass of Anach backs almost to the border of Doriath, which will not fall so long as Melian holds
  * Ladros is open, and held by humans, and Húrin and Huor have arrived at the gates of Pindost, children in armor with shields sized for men full grown
  * “There is a great beast, like nothing we have ever heard of,” Húrin reports. “It appears like a monstrous lizard that breathes fire and vapors, armored in golden scales.”
  * _Glaurung,_ Anairë thinks, and has a room prepared for the boys
  * She stays up through the night, partially in conference with her lieutenants, partially alone in her chambers, writing by starlight
  * The sun is half-risen before she has finished, heart heavy. She seals the thick package of parchment with string, then ribbon and her own seal
  * “Pack,” she orders her granddaughter
  * “How long will we be marching?” Idril asks
  * “We are not,” Anairë says. “You are taking the young Lords of Ladros and returning to your father.”
  * Idril’s hands clench, her mouth sets, her chin tilts up. She is very much like her father, in a temper
  * “I am a blooded warrior, Grandmother,” she says. “I will not be sent away as a child _yet again!_ I braved the Valley of Dreadful Death untrained, and my aunt and our cousin taught me well and brought me up to the Dagor Aglareb! I can fight; and I am a Princess of the House of Finwë. I can lead on the field! And beyond that I have lost, as much as any! Friends, from the Cavalry! Great-Grandfather, as much as you! Lord Curufinwë and Lady Menelissë, who have been as parents; and Tyelperinquar my cousin and the brother of my heart-”
  * “Aramindis Itarillë Tyelperintál Turukániel,” Anairë interrupts quietly. “I know what it is that approaches us. Never have we asked you to reveal Gondolin, nor ordered you back, for love of your father and your mother and you as well. But Hador and Galdor will not be able to hold. Take the boys, and see them safe; and deliver this to your father.”
  * She holds out the bundle she has spent much of the night writing
  * “To your father and _only_ your father,” she orders. “If anything befalls you along the way, and it seems you will not be able to deliver it- _destroy it!_ ”
  * Idril takes it, warily
  * “Grandmother-”
  * “A great many people are going to die, Itarillë. But you _cannot;_ do you hear me? _You must live._ Live; and find the husband your mother foresaw for you at your birth.”
  * “I can forego a husband for-”
  * _“You **cannot,** ” _Anairë says harshly. “I know his _name,_ granddaughter!”
  * That shocks her into silence
  * “I know the name of your son. I know the names of _his_ sons; and their faces! I have known the deaths of my children! Of my husband! Of his brother! Of my nephews; on both sides! Of near _all_ our people!”
  * “But not you?” Idril asks hesitantly
  * “There are few deaths I do not know of, and I have little confidence that they will not come to pass,” Anairë says. “Go. Take that to your father; and pray he uses it well.”



* * *

  * Maedhros awakes to his father’s estate in Tirion and the only thing that keeps him present in the right moment is Fingon curled up around him
  * He hugs him tight and shuts his eyes and focuses on his breathing
  * Fingon stirs, coming slowly out of sleep
  * “Bad idea?” he murmurs a few moments later
  * “We had to stay somewhere,” Maedhros says into his hair
  * “We could have used _my_ father’s house.”
  * “I was going to show Nírnaedhis Grandmother’s things regardless, this was efficient.”
  * “Efficiency isn’t everything, Maedhros.”
  * That is patently untrue, especially now
  * They meet up with the other leaders downstairs, for breakfast. The food takes a little while, mostly because Saelon keeps frowning at various things in the kitchen and Acharedan had decided to test the maximum heat capacity of the main oven. Losereg and Aewenil, Fingon’s bird-language Sindar friend, are much more helpful
  * “So!” Fingon says, once they have all had the chance to eat a little. “How many of us do you think know about boats?”
  * “Not many, I’d wager,” Aewenil answers. “I haven’t met many Faladhrim. Sailing away is a pretty good survival tactic.”
  * “There are a few,” Losereg says. “Not enough for every boat we would need. And fewer shipwrights.”
  * “We can buy boats,” Aewenil points out
  * “Maybe,” Fingon says. “The Teleri are very fond of theirs. And most of the moveable wealth is gone. If we provided labour for the building of some…?”
  * “Need people who know how to sail,” Acharedan grunts, and takes another orange
  * “The Teleri will not be willing to sail if they cannot return,” Maedhros says heavily. “We would need others trained in navigation and operation.”
  * “We could _steal_ the boats-”
  * _“No,”_ Maedhros and Fingon say together
  * Merilcruin, the woman who’d spoken, shrugs, unbothered
  * “Used to steal boats on the Gelion all the time,” she says
  * “And you were _killed_ stealing boats,” Thaladis reminds her
  * “Did _not,_ I was _investigating_ the usual tie-ups when a raid-”
  * “You were in a boat, I know you were in the boat, I _killed you_ in that boat.”
  * “I hadn’t stolen it _yet,_ ” Merilcruin insists
  * “We are not _stealing,_ ” Maedhros rules tiredly
  * “It’s legitimate war tactics! If we stole them back they couldn’t come over and kill us.”
  * “But we are not at the war yet,” Saelon says. “We can revisit the ethics of self-defense and action against the Enemy once we have arrived.”
  * The only way they really have to Beleriand is to sail. Not that Maedhros particularly _wants_ the Helcaraxë to have been a viable option, but they all know how to walk. Seafaring is harder
  * Still, with that being what they have, they break after the food is finished to go ask amongst their host for any who have the right experience
  * Nírnaedhis stops him as everyone else is leaving
  * “I’m going to go find my husband.”
  * “You’re married?” Maedhros asks, surprised. Fingon slows and glances over
  * “I knew from my sister that he lived,” she says. “And I know from our bond that he is on this shore and I won’t leave without having seen him.”
  * “We have plenty of people to ask questions,” Fingon speaks up. “Go find him, we’ll see you two later.”
  * Maedhros doesn’t want to have Fingon out of his sight, but he has a great-uncle he hadn’t known about until now
  * Fingon sees his hesitation and ducks over to kiss him briefly
  * “I’ll keep Thaladis with me,” he promises. “You know how much she’d hate to fail you.”
  * “Stay safe,” Maedhros says
  * Fingon smiles and walks out and disappears and he _breathes_
  * “He’ll be fine,” Nírnaedhis tells him
  * “I know,” he replies. “I ”
  * He looks at his great-aunt, expecting her to take the lead and begin tracking down her husband
  * But she seems hesitant
  * “Grand-aunt?” he asks
  * “I’ve had time to see,” she says, shifting restlessly. “How people lived in Tirion. Live. He is still here, after so many others left-”
  * Maedhros waits a moment, but she’s stopped
  * “If he loves you, he will want to see you.”
  * “I won’t stay,” she says. “I _can’t._ But he has had all this, the peace and the safety and the comfort, while I- you know. What it’s like. He doesn’t; and I do not want to tell him. It will hurt him.”
  * “I wished to keep it from Fingon, as well,” Maedhros says. “But he loves me, and would not leave, so he learned. Your husband can as well. He will want to, likely.”
  * Something occurs to him
  * “He would have been at Cuiviénen, would he not? He will have a better base understanding than Fingon did. Or I. It will be fine.”
  * “That isn’t reassuring.”
  * “No, it isn’t,” Maedhros agrees. “Some things simply have to be done.”
  * She fidgets some more. Looks down at herself
  * “He will not care about your appearance either,” Maedhros says firmly, quite sure of this. His great-aunt greatly resembles her younger sister, though her silver hair is a darker shade than any other he has seen. It’s quite striking. “Not everyone dresses like those you have seen, we are not _all_ Come- tell me about him as we walk.”
  * “He is incredibly intelligent,” Nírnaedhis says as they finally leave. “Not in the way of the craftsmen, necessarily. He was always quiet. Liked thinking. Cuiviénen never suited him much. Not the way it didn’t suit Míriel, I never worried about him in the same way, but of we three I was the only who fit well. I was a hunter. I did well enough. But I knew I had not skill enough to attract his notice. When he kept coming around I was so certain he was there for my sister-”
  * She continues on through their courtship in staggered, short sentences. Maedhros tucks his hands behind his back and listens attentively, noting where they are in Tirion and trying to ignore the great emptiness of it. There are people who do still live here, who stayed or who moved in once others had gone, but there are so few of them
  * Still, they are Noldor, and he is the eldest of the House of Finwë on these shores. They bow and he nods regally back in acknowledgement and is thankful that it is clear he is on business and so no one will try to engage him in conversation
  * They’re in an area midway between the palace and the eastern gate when Nírnaedhis slows and begins anxiously peering at the houses. Maedhros hangs back slightly, and waits
  * Partway down the street, she hesitates a few moments longer in front of a particular garden gate
  * She reaches out and pushes it
  * It creaks open about a foot or so
  * And the door of the house _slams_ open and his great-aunt is staring with hope and fear and tears-
  * _“Saratië-!”_
  * _Like the letters?_ Maedhros thinks inanely; and then realizes why that occurred to him at all
  * This is Rúmil of Tirion’s house, and suddenly the odd fact that the esteemed loremaster of the Noldor had never begrudged the adoption of Fëanor’s Tengwar script over his own Sarati is no longer puzzling
  * He stands aside as watches as they rush each other. His great-aunt is strong enough to lift her husband up by the waist in their embrace, though he’s the taller of the two
  * Maedhros politely looks away from their reunion and admires the architecture, waiting to be noticed
  * “Maedhros,” his great-aunt calls roughly, after a while. “Come meet-”
  * She is still overwhelmed by reuniting with her husband, so he is not surprised by the way the sentence merely stops partway through
  * Rúmil, though- his face contorts through some very interesting and calculating expressions as Maedhros approaches
  * “Prince Nelyafinwë?” he ventures
  * Maedhros had had the opportunity, at his father’s estate, to examine his new body in a mirror. It is different, how the majority of the physical damage he had sustained in Beleriand is gone. The only sign that remains of Angband is his new hand; all his faint and faded scars are from battles
  * It takes some scrutiny, for those who do not know they are there, to notice them. But on a casual sight he knows he seems weathered, in a nebulous way that has no immediately apparent cause and is odd for most elves. He has more strength in his body than Maitimo Nelyafinwë as well, and while he has the prince’s looks Maedhros has also seen the hardness that sets in the lines of his body in still moments, and the darkness in his eyes, and the cold dispassion that curls on his teeth and tongue sometimes, the type that weighs strangers against family and brings down the sword on the life that matters less
  * Maedhros is a habitually violent man, and though he holds out against calling himself _‘cruel’_ the distinction is lost in enemy-less Valinor
  * (Violence is something carried in the body, in the blood and the bone and flesh. When he is pretending to be Nelyafinwë, he can hide it
  * When he pretends to be Nelyafinwë, it turns inwards, becoming a strangling tension in his chest and the silent-screaming fear in the back of mind of suspecting he is caught in one of Sauron’s illusions but not being able to be _certain_
  * He had pretended to be Nelyafinwë, in the mirror, to evaluate his disguise. He had smiled and for a few long seconds had been certain he was dying again, because a fëa should not reject a hröa so forcefully
  * Then he had snapped back and retched with the force of the memory of being in Angband and _not allowed to die-_
  * He does not want to pretend to be Nelyafinwë again, but he is going to)
  * Maedhros smiles a courtier’s smile, the one belonging to the eldest son of this man’s favored student
  * “I am willing to dispense with the titles, Master Rúmil, if you are, given our familial connection.”



* * *

  * They want to make him High King
  * Fëanor had had plans laid for this, against the eventuality of his father’s death. All the pageantry and ceremony around replacing Kánafinwë in the succession had been to set a _precedent;_ a precedent he has ruined by rushing ahead, by not thinking, by heeding the void within himself-
  * _It isn’t your fault,_ Nerdanel tells him tiredly, from somewhere else in Barad Eithel. He doesn’t believe her, and she doesn’t have the energy to spare to convince him. She is grieving, for Morifinwë and for Fingolfin and for Elór, who they are going to outlive and she had thought that just maybe she would be there for her daughter in the Halls; that she would get to see Maedhros, Maitimo in truth and not as a cruel deception-
  * _No, melitsanya, no,_ he pleads, just as unconvincingly. He is grieving, too, for the same people
  * He was supposed to have been able to be strong, when this time came. To stand tall and sure and proud before the Lords and Ladies of the Noldor, to face them from before the throne with his brothers at his side and tell them: _No, I will not be High King. I recuse myself from the succession; I abdicate in favor of Ñolofinwë Finwion who is kinder and wiser and more just, who sees more clearly, who does not fall prey to his temperament nor his pride so easily as I. Let the younger succeed the elder, as I have done with my sons_
  * He was not supposed to have stood there silent and blank in the council room as his father’s lords and lieutenants stubbornly ignored Indis in her seat and spoke of continuity and war and birthright and praised the man who should have been king for his loyal sacrifice, the perfect second second redeeming the favor his father had shown by passing on the rescue, Fingolfin the transitive vehicle of Finwë’s devoted paternal love for his eldest, his heir, the only son and child of High Queen Míriel-
  * ( _Who after all was a Noldo, was a devotee of craft and who gave her very self to creation,_ their refusal to acknowledge Indis in her seat and in her mourning had said. _Indis is sister of Ingwë and the Valar may have named him High King of all the Eldar but we are not Vanyar but the true Noldor, the Noldor of Beleriand who are loyal to the House of Finwë, who followed him to Aman and away again, who respect but do not abide by the rule of the Valar who did not protect us as they said and who have proved unwilling as well as unable)_
  * “Leave,” Indis had commanded them; but they had done so only in the face of Fëanor’s unrelenting lack of contradiction
  * The door closed behind the last and Indis’s hands had curled and clenched around the decorative ends of the armrests
  * Silence
  * “Was it not enough to hate us?” his father’s second wife had asked, quiet and bitter and vicious and glaring at his feet, too furious and too weighted with grief to look him in the eyes. “You had to kill my son as well?”
  * _I love him,_ Fëanor had wanted to say, still wants to stay, standing here high upon the highest tower of the walls of Barad Eithel, alone in the wind and the wet ashy gloom of an oncoming storm battling against the volcanic clouds driven south on the heat of the ongoing destruction of Ard-galen. _I love him more than I could have ever thought. He saw what I would have done and still he kept his hand extended in friendship and brotherly care until I grasped it – uncareful have I been with it! To have pulled him down to raise myself up; and worse a condemnation of me is it that I did not intend to do so!_
  * But their better relations had been a private thing, in the end; the product of a dream they could not speak of, built from letters and conversations few others were privy to. He has one public support of his brother to his name, _one_
  * That is not enough to say these things of his brother, to mourn him so strongly and with such words around others, and not sound insincere. The memories of elves are long and he has spent so much of his life _hating-_
  * He should have done more. He’d had a second chance and he _should have done-_
  * The wind bites and cuts and his eyes sting in the ash. Fëanor wipes them clear and ends up with gritty residue on his fingers
  * And a specter in his eyes
  * His father stands before him, translucent against the parapet and the clouds. The ash falls and sticks to the stone and there is the quiet patter of droplets of ice. They sting his skin and he does not _care,_ for Finwë is attired as High King holding court, robes resplendent, crown a counterpoint to the chains weighing him down
  * “No,” Fëanor whispers and the houseless fëa of his father bound by Sauron’s necromancies has no light of the Trees in his eyes, only Shadow, as he answers: _Yes_



* * *

  * Fingon knows Maedhros is back because he spots Nírnaedhis – and in confusing company, at that
  * “Why is Master Rúmil here?” he asks when he finds his cousin
  * “Where were we going?” Maedhros asks in turn
  * _“Really?”_
  * Maedhros nods
  * “No one talks about _anything_ in this family!” Fingon exclaims, throwing up his hands in exasperation and disgust
  * “Rúmil had thought Grandfather had told Father, and Atar simply did not want to speak of it, so he never said anything. But Grandfather doesn’t seem to have known, so…”
  * “I don’t suppose we have any _other_ relatives to be suddenly revealed? Your mother’s mother, perhaps?”
  * “No,” Maedhros says. “Lord Námo confirmed that she is houseless, haunting the Falas, and content there. But I have learned that my father’s grandmother’s name is Rilyamorië; and that Father and all of us but Celegorm are the strange ones for having odd-colored hair. Apparently the silver is traditional at least back to Saelon’s generation, and Míriel’s line has before this point also had a notable lack of sons.”
  * “So your father’s making up for it all on his own.”
  * “So it seems.”
  * “Is Nírnaedhis staying in Tirion, then?” Fingon asks.
  * “Saratië, now,” Maedhros corrects him. “She told me she has no need for the other, seeing as she is no longer bereaved. Rúmil is coming with us.”
  * “Well I hope he has Teleri friends,” Fingon says, trying to imagine Rúmil in Beleriand. It simply does not work, the loremaster is firmly entrenched in his conception of Tirion. “Because there are less in our host who know about ships than we had thought.”
  * It had been a very disheartening thing to learn. Fingon doesn’t like passing it on
  * He’s trying to be hopeful about it. He’s managed more with less
  * (Though there is a part of him with Manwë’s voice admonishing: _Foresight and patience are the antidote to brash and reckless behavior_
  * They really hadn’t exactly been planning on _how_ to get to Beleriand. Just that they were going to go
  * Maybe they’ll get a-)
  * Maedhros suddenly has a very odd expression and grabs his arm
  * “What?” Fingon asks, looking around as his cousin starts dragging him away. “What’s wrong? Where-”
  * A good portion of the newly-returned had chosen to camp outside Tirion rather than spend the night in borrowed buildings. Everyone has been milling about in the large open fields around the city, but there is a familiar stand of small woodland on the northwestern slopes of the pass of Calacirya. Fingon had taken Aredhel there often, when she had been a child
  * There are people waiting for them, hidden by the first screen of trees
  * “Lord Aulë,” Maedhros says, kneeling. “I thank you for your graciousness.”
  * _It gladdens me to see one turned from evil and truly repentant,_ says Aulë. _It was no hardship, but a joy. And, perhaps, easier for me to forgive than some of my kin. Mine own children are not without terrible deeds; and I too have lost ones I care for. I cannot fault you for love_
  * “I hope my intentions to depart for elsewhere than Kemensinqina have not caused you overmuch trouble-”
  * _It is no trouble at all, Maitimo Nerdanelion. The Aulenduri have managed well without your grandfather, and they can continue to manage until your return_
  * “You are so confident we will leave, then?” Fingon asks, and bows to the other Valar who were awaiting them. This is an odd group. “Yourself, and Lord Oromë, and Lady Vairë?”
  * _To me is given the past, not the future,_ Vairë _I come merely to deliver a gift_
  * “We would be well-gifted indeed to receive something from you, my Lady,” he thanks her
  * _They are not of my work,_ she says. The distinction becomes clear as cloth unrolls – he recognizes Míriel’s hand
  * The odd piece out is an open surcoat of slate grey, embroidered with a device that seems very faintly familiar: two dark green pine boughs with cones intact, arranged as an upright laurel wreath. He’s certain he’s seen it somewhere before
  * _For her sister,_ Lady Vairë says, and Fingon remembers. Fëanor’s earliest works can be dated by the change from pine to star imagery, marking before and after Finwë’s remarriage. Pine had been Míriel’s sign
  * Or perhaps her family’s, given that here the pine laurel incases the Fëanorian star, brilliant in silver thread against the duller grey of the coat. She must want to make her relationship to her sister unmistakable. Reasonable, given that it had been forgotten somewhere in the shuffle of the Great Journey and her death
  * The other pieces are of a kind to each other in coloring. There are more surcoats, these sleeveless for wearing over armor, and a few other items of clothing meant for more peaceful times.
  * The largest and most impressive is the war banner, and Fingon smiles and blinks back touched tears at what Míriel has wrought for them
  * The field of the device she has crafted for them is clever and skilled. From so close, he can tell that the color has been created by twining together threads of Fëanorian red and his own favored navy before weaving, creating a deep purple that shimmers more one color or the other depending on how the light hits
  * It is charged with Thorondir, expertly detailed down to the feathers in solid gold embroidery, spread-winged in flight. A Silmaril bursts in silver brilliance on his breast, Fingolfin’s sun and Fëanor’s star subtly hidden in the design and evident only on careful inspection
  * Maedhros leans in, taking his hand and letting his hair fall before his face, obscuring his lips where they stop close to Fingon’s ear
  * “Something of ours,” he whispers, quiet joy edged with bittersweet. “Just ours, Kánya.”
  * Something for the two of them, so that they do not have to claim one of their families over the other. Something for the two of them, so that when they are denied the devices of their own families, they have something to present themselves under
  * And something that their returned can present themselves under, Fingon realizes, smiling widely at Míriel’s adroit political move, that does not tie them to the Noldor nor the Sindar nor any other Lord or King or Kindred they do not claim
  * No Amanyar would dare dismiss or discredit arms granted by Míriel Therindë, not even High King Ingwë. This is legitimacy, for all of them
  * _I thought it very clever, myself,_ Aulë Fingon wonders if the Vala had overheard him, or is simply giving compliment to a craftswoman
  * “Please, Lady Vairë, convey our gratitude and admiration to High Queen Míriel,” Fingon says. “This is fair work, and a truly royal gift.”
  * _It would not do for you to go about as though you were vagrant bandits without colors of your own,_ Vairë _She knows, and I will tell her. But what is the name of those who will march under this standard?_
  * “Your Lord Husband has called us the Returnèd,” Maedhros answers her, but Fingon has something better
  * “After discussion, the consensus appears to be that they are the Elves of the North and the Elves of the East,” he says. “For there are many times and kindreds represented amongst us, but these are the common threads – that many are of Cuiviénen, that many have remade themselves in the aftermath of Angband, and that none are of Aman.”
  * They are _Lordless_ elves, after all, their friends. They would name themselves, not accept a term from the Valar they are unwilling to live with
  * _And are you, then, not of Aman?_ Lord Oromë asks, speaking at last
  * Maedhros takes a deep breath. Fingon feels him let go of his hand
  * “If anywhere will have me, Lord,” he says. “And if I can claim any origin, then I am of Himring in Beleriand, a faithful and devoted vassal of my King.”
  * Oromë is giving Fingon _such_ a look. He reminds himself that he has long known this Vala to be a friend of Celegorm and Aredhel, and keeps a straight face. Their siblings can do their _own_ teasing
  * Oromë inclines his head a fraction in acknowledgement. Whether it is to his thoughts or Maedhros’s words, Fingon isn’t certain
  * “I am of the Noldor,” he says for his answer to the question. “But not the Noldor as they are known. I may bear the name of Findekáno Ñolofinwion and I do not deny my kinship; but I am not the same Prince who has been looked for. Fingon Mallendor and Fingon Tar-Maltya I was named in the Halls; and from the Halls I have a duty laid upon me by friends and others besides who have looked to me for companionship and reassurance and trust. My place is with my cousin, and with them. Beleriand has made me, not Tirion.”
  * _Answers well-earned,_ Lord Oromë _Let us speak, then, of returning you to your homes_



* * *

  * Tyelkormo had told his sister, when he’d received the messenger from Aredhel, that Caranthir had made it back to the Cavalry
  * He hasn’t told her that their parents are most certainly dead. Only… not heard from, yet
  * “I want to see Moryo,” Elór insists, when the news comes that a group has been spotted on the approach
  * He can’t do anything but oblige her, and holds her on his hip as they watch from the walls near the gate, waiting for the group to get close enough to see properly
  * “He might not be there, Hánormelda,” he warns her. “Remember, Aunt Aredhel said he’d been hurt.”
  * Elór’s face sets mulishly
  * “He _has_ to be,” she insists
  * Tyelkormo squeezes her a bit and keeps watching
  * More riders appear, staggered and spread out, but catching up to the first group
  * They’re too far to see clearly, but the wind is blowing past them towards Himring. He checks in with Huan
  * Huan looks back at him and whines, tail wagging dejectedly
  * “Aikarossë!” Tyelkormo yells to the guard captain. “Put together an escort troop; and get the entrance courtyard staffed!”
  * The higher-toned watchbell starts ringing, _dong dong-dong_ , a summons to the courtyard and a sign to the oncoming riders, if they are indeed friendly, that they’re being welcomed
  * “Back inside, nettë,” he tells Elór, setting her down
  * _“No.”_
  * _“Yes,”_ he insists. “It might be bad, Hánormelda. If Moryo’s here I’ll bring him up to see you, promise. But you have to be safe.”
  * _“_ And Ammë or Atar.”
  * “Or Ammë and Atar,” Tyelkormo promises, knowing they won’t be coming back. “Go. Linthë is just down there, have her take you to your rooms.”
  * He watches until his sister’s designated guard salutes him, acknowledging the order, and then turns to attend their approaching visitors
  * Aikarossë climbs up to stand with him, handing over a hard case brought from the fortress. Tyelkormo opens it and carefully takes out the spyglass
  * This will be one of the things they have left of their father, now, and it will be irreplaceable – no one else has studied light as intensely as Fëanor had, and Curufinwë and Tyelpë are gone. If this breaks, it cannot be fixed
  * Tyelkormo sights through the lenses and signals a second bell-ringing: _d-dong dong dong_
  * He places the spyglass back in it’s protective case, snaps it shut, and goes down to meet his brother
  * Caranthir is at the tail of the first group, tied to his horse. There’s a third wave entering the approach behind the second, Cavalry with weary mounts and injured riders
  * Tyelkormo has to help him off, undoing the straps and catching him when he slides sideways, going down on one knee to support his younger brother in a sitting position. One of his legs is splinted and the bandages are red-brown with a slow seepage of blood
  * “Moryo-”
  * “‘M fine,” he murmurs
  * The wind turns; Huan _woofs_ deeply from the battlements
  * “Get someone up there!” Tyelkormo snaps at whoever’s near, and readjusts his hold on Caranthir. “Moryo _talk to me._ ”
  * “Aredhel said I had to ride,” he says, in that same tired, unfocused voice. “I rode. A long way…”
  * “You did,” Tyelkormo prompts him when he trails off. “You made it to Himring.”
  * Caranthir’s head lolls back, and he stares numbly up at him
  * “Atar’s gone,” he says
  * “I know. I know.”
  * His brother reaches up and manages to clap him on the cheek on his second try. It leaves a streak of gore and Tyelkormo swears over the state of his palms, wet and festering in old, tattered bandages
  * “M’lord,” Caranthir slurs as the head healer closes in. “High King. Need your strength, Turkafinwë.”
  * The courtyard goes slow and quiet. Löarcormë, the healer, meets Tyelkormo’s eyes for a moment; then drops them
  * “My king,” he says and it carries. Everyone is listening. “Prince Morifinwë seems to have been heavily dosed against pain. If you need immediate answers, now is the time.”
  * Löarcormë had attended at the delivery of his father, of his elder brothers, of himself and his younger siblings. He has called Finwë High King and now-
  * _Take it back,_ Tyelkormo thinks, angry and grieving and he’s not certain if it’s at the healer or his brother or his father. _Take it back take it back-_
  * “Moryo,” he says; and when he gets no response: _“Caranthir.”_
  * “Mm?”
  * “You’re in no condition to ride, what _happened?_ ”
  * “…orcs,” Caranthir says. “Kept attacking. More each time. ‘Rissë said, pull back, injured leave. Ride for help. I sent… told some of’m. Go to Rerir. Tell Erelind- she’s so worried, Tyelko-”
  * “I bet,” Tyelkormo says and curses his inability to comfort, in this time. “We’ll get you better, and then she’ll feel better.”
  * “Prepare,” he brother says, and stirs, trying to sit up more. Tyelkormo holds him in place. “Have to. No Ammë, Aglon-”
  * “You’re going to _heal-_ ”
  * “Army,” Caranthir insists. “Have to… to…”
  * He blinks drowsily in confusion at the gates opening again to let in more horse-mounted casualties of Lothlann
  * Tears start tracking down his face
  * “Gonna lose,” he mumbles, and tries to hide against Tyelkormo’s chest. “Gonna lose. Lose, lose, lose- too many- can’t get through, _Erelind-_ ”
  * “Your Majesty,” Löarcormë quietly interrupts, and hands him a folded packet of paper. It’s spotted with blood
  * Tyelkormo rests his brother’s weight against his torso and opens it. The first sheet is a rushed map of the spill of Lothlann down between the mountains and the highlands, marked with the sites of the permanent and semi-permanent encampments of the Cavalry. Aredhel’s slashed through most of the northern ones and connected them with notated arrows to those in the central zone, where the spill comes to its narrowest point
  * The second sheet is a quick list of figures. Numbers for the dead, the injured, the missing. The broad strokes of the reassignments; the rough calculations of equipment and supplies lost or spoiled. Horse casualties, and the number of injured she expected to lose to the lack of available transportation somewhere safer
  * The estimated size of the enemy
  * Aredhel hasn’t included a plea for help. Her math has made it clear: the Cavalry cannot hold. Not without the army Fëanor and Caranthir threw at Angband behind them
  * The paper crinkles in his grip
  * Tyelkormo presses a fierce kiss to Caranthir’s hair, leaves him to the care of Löarcormë, and rises, calling for his lieutenants



* * *

  * Oromë and Aulë had had a proposition for them, in those woods outside Tirion
  * _There is one place I have the power to take you to,_ Lord Aulë had told them. _A final gift I could give you, and a favor to the Noldor who have always been dear to me of the Eldar_
  * _It may be faster, in the end, to beg ships and sailors of the Teleri,_ Lord Oromë had cautioned. _It is not a short distance to Beleriand, even riding steeds bred and raised in Valinor_
  * Their choice had been possibility, and the chance of speed; or certainty, and guaranteed allies
  * “You are the one who fought the worst of it,” Fingon had told him, deferring to experience. “Would speed have availed you better, or force?”
  * The Bragollach had been swift. With speed, perhaps he could have stayed ahead of some of the slaughter and destruction
  * But he remembers decimated forces, and losing positions because too many had died to hold them, and prevailing upon Azaghâl for they had not enough strength to win themselves
  * If they petitioned the Teleri, and were refused, the delay in accepting the Valar’s offer could well see them in a Beleriand with nothing left to reinforce, their families slain and their people scattered to desperately hug the coast and look ever-fearfully northward to their lost strongholds
  * Maedhros had been the one to abdicate to Fingolfin, for the unity of the Noldor and for the better relations with the Sindar. Maedhros had been the one to organize the Union
  * Maedhros knows the value of allies, and of certainty
  * “All the gratitude we could ever express would be inadequate,” he had accepted
  * The host of the returned had been well-pleased with the decision, particularly those elves of Eriador. Losereg had heard of their destination and brightened considerably, reminiscing on the holly-lands of their birth
  * Lord Oromë had provided them with horses, when all other preparations to leave had been finished, to bear them to Beleriand from the destination given by Lord Aulë
  * They arrive in the Misty Mountains, the trees of an old-growth forest behind and below; the valley entrance to Khazad-dûm before. It is well-sized and circular, a mountain meadow surprisingly free of rocks and buried under fresh snow
  * It’s not large enough to hold all of them. Not that taking a full host to the gates of people you haven’t introduced yourselves to yet is a good idea. Not if you want to be friends, and convince them that you come in peace
  * “Well, no reason putting it off?” Fingon says, shading his eyes against the morning sun. “You go first, _mírima_. It’s not Belegost, but…”
  * An entire host is unadvisable, but it’s also not done to go alone. They’re kings, unconventional though they may be, they have to present themselves like it
  * That means an escort. The kind of people who would be nobility, if their mixed Sindar-Avari people cared for that sort of thing
  * It’s an easy choice, by and large. Thaladis, Saelon, Saratië, and Losereg; all of them but Saratië in the purple surcoats and Losereg bearing the standard. Rúmil, chilled in fine clothes from Tirion that will need to have linings added. Taudhang, Acharedan, and Erethiel to finish off the leaders of those who came up from the dark; Aewenil and Merilcruin for the Sindar; Gwirilan and Laichorn for the Green-Elves and other Avari
  * Gold and silver embroidery glows in the sunlight, while dark purple shimmers as the strong mountain breeze ripples the fabric in the morning wind as they approach the East-gate of Khazad-dûm
  * They are met not by guards, but by a dwarrowdam heavy with furs and silks against the winter mountains, gold and sapphires and rubies and pearls woven into the intricate braiding of her hair and beard. It’s topped off with a very elaborate headpiece that isn’t really shaped properly to be a crown, but nonetheless-
  * “A great many elves I see,” she declares. It’s in Sindarin. Maybe. Close enough to be intelligible. It helps that he knows the sounds of Khuzdûl, even if he has only enough words for formalities; and that he has a bit of the languages of the Avari that live, or had lived, close enough to Angband to be raided and die enslaved. “A great many elves our Lord has told me to expect, but have you writ or sign?”
  * Maedhros hesitates. This isn’t like what he knows from Azaghâl, but the evident formality is also familiar. He knows what she’s asking for, but there _are_ guards he sees now hidden upon the gate and even if he did not have so much bloody experience of provoked slaughters that should not have been, to draw a sword as evidence of friendship is just not done
  * He dismounts, and pulls the glove from his right hand, and offers that instead
  * The dwarrowdam’s eyes light at the sight, and she smiles fiercely at him
  * “Rathkumahal in literal truth, I see,” she says. “You are sent, then.”
  * He places his offered hand over his heart
  * “I am Maedhros Orvandaemon,” he introduces himself, defaulting to Sindarin forms for names. It won’t be the same language, exactly, but it will be closer and more familiar than Quenya. “A King of the Elves of the North and of the East, the Forn-ar-Rhûn, called also the Dandolindrim, the Returned.”
  * “Returned from where, I wonder?” she asks archly
  * “From the far reaches of the world,” Fingon answers. “Seeking aid and alliance against the Enemy of your Lord and ours, Aulë-who-is-Mahal under the shared banner of my cousin and I, Fingon Astaldo Mallendor.”
  * “And I am Móstgnira to whom Mahal speaks; Queen of Khazad-dûm alongside my husband Durin King called Deathless.”
  * “Deathless he must truly be!” Maedhros exclaims in surprise. “For the eldest of the Quendi are all long dead, they who are meant to live forever in the world!”
  * He knows _of_ Durin the Deathless of course, you can’t know anything of substance about the dwarves and _not_ know of him
  * What he _hadn’t_ known was that Durin had lived so far into the First Age
  * (Durin might have outlived _him._ It didn’t seem probable, but he’d already lived _this_ long – the eldest and greatest of the Seven Fathers of the dwarves, who awoke to mountains and a crown of stars just as the Quendi were first calling to the heavens at Cuiviénen)
  * “He will come to his death as you will yours, Elf-Kings,” Queen Móstgnira says. It doesn’t _sound_ any different from the rest of their conversation, but it _feels_ like yet another Doom
  * “Then let us all live long in harmony,” Maedhros replies, just in case
  * “A word-smith and a war-smith,” the queen observes cryptically, and begins to issue orders to the gate guards to let them in



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _‘Rathkumahal’_ means _‘hand of Mahal’_ , or _'Mahal-handed'_


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update! Because I feel like it

  * It has been more than two hundred years since Idril left Gondolin, but she still remembers the way. She leaves Pindost with Húrin and Huor at her back and her grandmother’s missive tucked into her breastplate
  * The Orfalch Echor empties into the Pass of Anach in a hidden cleft, appearing nothing more than a common cave in the stone of the mountains. The way up to it is covered in gravel to hide the passage of those few scouts and hunters who might venture out into the Pass and Brethil to the south, and she has to urge their mounts up it and then into the long and starless dark, where elves might barely see in the thin light that falls into the thin mouth of the ravine, high above, but through which neither horses or men can perceive by sight
  * “Princess?” Huor asks, voice trembling, after many minutes of nothing but the sound of breathing and hoof-steps in the black tunnel
  * “Still ahead of you,” she reassures the brothers. “Here- stop, and tie your horse to Húrin’s, and I shall tie Húrin’s to mine, and we can all be assured that neither of you will become lost.”
  * There are six gates between them her parents’ city. The first will be at the end of the long Hidden Way, where the light returns as the ravine cracks wider and the tunnel ceiling opens to vast echoes and the walls are slick with the rain and seeping condensation that eroded this passage in an age past
  * The Gate of Wood is a simple enough thing, its setting carved from the surrounding rock and the thick planks bound with decorative iron fittings. The wood is carved in a relief of the trees they had once been and Idril can only think, as she removes her helmet at the challenge of the gate guards, that such working undermines the strength of the oak. The great gates of Pindost are plain and sturdy and will take a great beating; the many-layered defenses of Himring would never let a battering ram get so close at all
  * The gate guards know her by her Vanyar hair and her Noldor eyes and the quality of her Quenya, and let her and the boys pass
  * Next is the Gate of Stone, where a great slab is winched up and down as a portcullis to block the way. The grey-clad guards here scrutinize her a bit more closely and eye Húrin and Huor with mistrust – they have never seen a human before
  * _Lady Nerdanel could shear this apart in three strikes,_ Idril thinks as they pass under the slab. _Lord Caranthir and Lady Erelind could sing it to crumbling like water-rotted sandstone_
  * The Gate of Bronze is the largest yet, with a sally-door plated in the devices of the Lords of Gondolin and three towers clad in copper, polished bright and reflecting light up and down the ravine. There is not a hint of weathered green or black anywhere on it
  * Idril can only imagine the amount of time the guards in their reddened mail must spend scrubbing down the metal; and what that says about the kind of things they expect from this duty
  * “The Tower of the King, and the Hill of the Watch,” she snaps, the final answer to the questions they are bothering to ask about Gondolin itself, for one who had never lived there could not know its features
  * The Gate of Writhen Iron is a masterpiece, a three-layered thing of metal molded in reliefs of trees and flowers, capped on the outside by a great iron eagle above the outermost gate. The guards here do not challenge them, assured of their security a mere four miles out from the hidden city
  * The Gate of Silver is low and white with marble, the gate itself silver with malachite and pearls beneath a miniature Tyelperion; the Gate of Gold is yellow marble with Laurelin crowning the gate of soft metal and garnet and citrine
  * _Five armies,_ Idril calculates. _A fleet, and all the supplies for ten seasons afield. Fodder and breeding stud from the Haladin for the next century. The price of a third hidden city from the deep-delvers of Nogrod and Belegost, vast and fine enough to outshine Menegroth and Nargothrond_
  * She had been a very different person, the last time she had crossed under these gates
  * The ravine opens up before them into the valley. Gondolin shines white under the sun upon its hill and Idril pauses them, both to untie the horses and to give the boys time to gape at the extravagance of so much pristine marble in one place
  * The ten towers rise ever higher as they approach down the boulevard. The further on they go the more attention they gain; Idril spots some in the livery of the House of the Tree race towards the center of the city ahead of them
  * Idril leads them to the great square and dismounts them in the shadow of the Tower of the King, the greatest and highest monument of the city, marked by the great latticed flare of stone at two-thirds of it’s height where the Eagles of the Echoriath might perch to bring news to her father
  * “Heads up, backs straight,” she tells Húrin and Huor in their native tongue. “You are noble among Men, and your House is no less than any of the lordly of the Eldar.”
  * She strides up the steps of the palace, the boys behind her. She is not stopped by the guards and she cannot help but think: _Aunt Aredhel would tear strips from them for such laxness_
  * The palace is exactly as she remembers it being, and it is not hard to reach the throne room. Here, the guards stare; Idril ignores them and pushes one of the doors open herself
  * The entire assembled court looks up at such a breach of protocol. It is not done for new arrivals to be admitted unannounced
  * Idril has taken five steps towards the paired thrones before her mother flies from her seat, crying her name
  * Her father is close behind and wraps his arms around them both. Idril leans into their embrace; she has not missed Gondolin and she has found family without the walls but it has been so long-
  * She feels her father shift, and can imagine the look he is leveling at Húrin and Huor
  * She pulls back
  * “Father, Mother,” she says formally, projecting her voice. “Lords and people of Gondolin. I present to you Lords Húrin and Huor, grandsons of Lord Hador of Ladros, loyal and beloved vassal of Prince Ñolofinwë, nobility of the Edain, the sun-woken mortal Children of Eru.”
  * “Mortal Children!” her mother exclaims as Húrin and Huor bow. “Like the dwarves?”
  * “Not so long-lived, Queen Elenwë,” Huor says. “And no Vala made us – our ancestors came from the far east and south, and their children for many generations have traveled west, following rumors of gods and kinder lands.”
  * “An unexpected origin for unexpected guests,” her father says, and Idril steps in
  * “I brought them on the order of my royal grandmother the Princess Anairë,” she says for the court. “And she sends a missive for you as well, Father.”
  * She fetches the packet from her breastplate and presents it to him, more quietly adding: “She was clear and very insistent about the delivery.”
  * He takes it and tucks it away in his own robes
  * “And the contents?” he asks at the same volume
  * “I can guess,” Idril says, and raises her voice again. “Princes Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar were taken by the Enemy. High King Finwë is dead; Barad Eithel is under siege with Prince Ñolofinwë within the walls and soon so will be the fortress of Pindost with Princess Anairë at its helm. Prince Arakáno is beset by a great force of the Enemy in the Fens of Serech. Ard-Galen burns and Balrogs prowl; there will be a march upon the east and Princess Írissë will be hard-pressed in Lothlann. Sauron is abroad in the field.”
  * She meets the eyes of her parents, and then the nearest Lords in turn, marking shock and dismay and sorrow
  * “The House of Finwë calls for the aid of Gondolin.”



* * *

  * They learn about the third army when Angrod collapses, screaming, and has to be Sung into unconsciousness as the healers try to keep him from fading or dying in reaction to his empty marriage bond
  * The fleeing survivors come later, with the news: orcs marching down from the north, from the other side of the mountains, from the Ice where no one goes because the winds howl and bite and the snow blinds and the chill steals heat and breath alike
  * Nothing can live, on the Ice
  * (They knew _they knew_ things can live on the Ice they _knew_ why had they never bothered to check that anyone was watching the northeast where Hithlum peters out into tundra no one can farm and no horses can forage-)
  * But there are orcs come down from where the Helcaraxë meets the land and Lammoth is lost and Findis is dead and part of the army came up Drengist to surprise Edhellos, who’d held Hithlum while her husband had taken reinforcements to Barad Eithel
  * Edhellos is dead and Hithlum is being overrun and Nerdanel remains in Barad Eithel while Aegnor and Angrod and Fëanor ride out against the army at their backs and she watches as the armies at their front mix, then split
  * (Behind her, Aegnor and Angrod and Fëanor fight. The news came too late- the third army has reconvened. Angrod’s fëa is already straining towards his missing mate and he dies, easily, in the farmlands)
  * Barad Eithel has only part of its forces, at the moment. Nerdanel knows she is a passable fighter and no general, no warleader. She is not Anairë, who has been called _‘Queen’_ for centuries already, since her first berserk charges against unsuspecting foes
  * But the lords and lieutenants ignore Indis whenever they can get away with it and the High Queen has been half-lost in grief since her son rode out to save them, and Fingolfin is dead, and Fëanor is leading a different battle
  * Nerdanel orders a sally, hoping to take some minor advantage of the confusion of their enemy’s troop movements
  * It does a little damage, but not much. Their original besiegers turn west, and south, towards the Fens of Serech
  * (Aegnor is calf-deep in Lake Mithrim when Fëanor fails to save another family member. _Nelyafinwë and Findekáno’s friends,_ he remembers, sharp and shamed and self-hating as he pulls their losing army back, back towards the mountains. What will they think, in the Halls, when they learn that even with advance warning their parents have failed so badly?)
  * A Sinda of Talath Dirnen makes it past the siege lines on treacherous mountain paths to bring more news – Tol Sirion is taken, Sauron sits in Minas Tirith, there are orcs in West Beleriand
  * Her husband returns, bringing what forces remain back with him. Hithlum and Mithrim are lost, and Barad Eithel is now under true siege
  * (They are thankful for one thing only: that they do not have to be the ones to tell Fingolfin of what Sauron has done to Argon)
  * “I know you don’t feel you deserve it,” Nerdanel says in the private dark of the night as they share a bed. “And that I don’t want it. But they need a leader, Fëanáro.”
  * _It should have been Ñolofinwë,_ he thinks to her. _I wanted it to be him._
  * _I know,_ she replies, and pets his hair. _I know_
  * “Arafinwë,” Fëanor says aloud. _He did better than either of us. He lasted longer, he knew when to turn back, he won the War of Wrath_
  * “He’s not here,” Nerdanel says, and continues in silence: _He lasted longer in Aman, where there was no fighting; and he won with Eönwë and a host of Maiar. The wisdom I will not argue, but is wisdom enough in Beleriand?_
  * _Better than impetuousness,_ he says. _I can lead. But I will not take the crown_
  * The weeks drag on. Another messenger makes it through – Arafinwë rode to Dor-Lómin and has rescued his peredhel grandchildren and Andreth. They are making a fighting retreat towards Nevrast, Orodreth, and Amrúwen, who have already sent Finduilas and young Rodnor to Círdan and Lalwen and the safety of the Falas
  * It helps morale, and rouses Indis some. Not much; nothing can, with her eldest son and daughter and so many of her grandchildren lost. But it is better than the alternative
  * Nerdanel has been trying to help her, but she has been reinforcing walls and taking control of work crews and engineers and smiths as Fëanor is forced to deal with lords and the infantry and the cavalry and the periodic assaults from the enemies surrounding them
  * But it is a siege, still; and Finwë is dead, still
  * Nothing anyone has been able to do prevents his specter from haunting the walls and the courtyards. They cannot Sing him away, nor free him. Nerdanel has been trying to lay art and virtue into the stones but even with her husband’s power added to her own Sauron’s necromancies prevail
  * “Because they weren’t built into the construction,” Fëanor says one night, tears trickling down his cheeks as Finwë appears _again,_ after an exhausting week of trying and trying and “It’s always harder for these things to take if you didn’t talk the building around to it in the first place.”
  * The council is begging him to take his father’s place. For the good of the city, they say. For the good of the Noldor. They need a king
  * “We can’t get messages out!” she overhears Fëanor snap at one of them, on one of the few sunny days they’ve had since this began. “What does it matter! The other great lords will think whatever they will think about my position; if they even know that my father is dead! It makes no difference!”
  * After that, the council members start petitioning _her_
  * Nerdanel doesn’t want to be High Queen. Nor a regular Queen. She’d not truly wanted to be a Princess, either. Vicereine of the East alongside her husband had been enough; inheriting Kemensinqina would have been enough
  * But she has been managing the engineers and the work groups and the smiths and organizing the food stores has fallen to her as well
  * And the council is not wrong
  * “It makes a difference to the city,” she tells him. “It makes a difference in Barad Eithel.”
  * “I will _not_ be High King!”
  * “Your father would want you to be.”
  * “My _father-”_
  * “Ñolofinwë would have supported you,” Nerdanel says, and hears a snatch of memory from him – _‘I will fall on my own sword before I take up that crown while you still live’_
  * “ _Ñolofinwë_ is a better man than I! Forgiving, and true, and _I-_ ”
  * “Be kind to his memory then,” she says. “Give him something to be succored by in the Halls, and relieve his mother of the weight of responsibility. Let her attend to her grief instead of fighting the lords for authority they do not want to give her.”
  * “I know how I will act in grief,” Fëanor retorts. “I should not be given more opportunity to lay waste to those who would follow me!”
  * “You know how you _may_ The oath-”
  * _“Curufinwë,”_ he counters. “An army, sorely needed, lost to my hubris!”
  * “And you do not have to do the same again,” Nerdanel says firmly. “You can choose to do elsewise.”
  * “And if I fail to?”
  * “Then you fail to. But I don’t think you will, Fëanáro.”
  * “Your faith in me is overvalued!”
  * “Your faith in yourself is lacking,” Nerdanel counters. “If you will not trust yourself, will you trust me?”
  * He’s conflicted about this, she can feel it
  * “If you truly think you have done such a poor job by the time this over,” she presses. “Then you may abdicate. Hand the crown to Arafinwë if that is still what you think is best. But for now, Fëanáro. They don’t have anyone else.”



* * *

  * Even with forewarning, it takes time to prepare an army
  * On the one hand, the timing is well enough – it is winter still, and winter marches are not kind on armies. By the time Khazad-dûm will be ready to head west it will be nearly spring. And they themselves need time to train, as well, to learn weapons they have never known before or to learn bodies that are not of the Enemy
  * On the other hand, the waiting is interminable and grates painfully against his every sense of duty
  * Maedhros busies himself with sword-work, at first, learning Naxaskatar and accustoming himself to having two hands
  * “You could take up a shield,” Fingon suggests, parrying. He is a competent swordsman, though he is better mounted than grounded; but Maedhros is fumbling only a little less trying to sort what to do with his right hand than he had learning to fight with his left. It evens out his advantage of experience
  * “I would be even more unused to that,” Maedhros says, and strikes at Fingon’s knees. It connects and Fingon skips back, favoring the struck leg for a few moments until the pain passes
  * “Cavalry swordsmen fight one-handed. Reins, you know.”
  * “And I care little enough for fighting horsed. Someday one will be killed under you and you will be thrown and then where will you be?”
  * “Facing Gothmog,” Fingon quips and Maedhros freezes and the hit against him lands
  * “Maedhros?” Fingon lowers his sword. “ _Mírimanya_ -”
  * “I’m all right,” he mutters, wiping his eyes. Fingon steps closer and takes his hand. “You’re here; I’m all right.”
  * “I’m sorry-”
  * “No. Have I not done the same? _I_ am-”
  * Fingon kisses him, gently
  * “Not your fault,” he reminds him, and they square off again
  * It doesn’t take long for him to work out fighting with two hands. There are enough others in their people who wield their swords with both, though Naxaskatar is not quite a broadsword. To someone with less strength or reach, perhaps it would be; but he is Maedhros the Tall
  * Fingon takes to training up a cavalry once his sword-work is sorted, using the valley before Khazad-dûm though it is still blanketed in snow. There will be time on the march, as well, but his love is just as restless as he is. Besides, the horses need exercising
  * But it is hard being parted for most of the day, and for the first span of this Maedhros lingers anxiously by the East-gate in the afternoons, swooping down on Fingon with blankets and drinks against the cold he is braving. It calms both their nerves, to have this reassurance against their past traumas
  * Time, though, dulls the fear somewhat – Fingon finds the Misty Mountains not as cold as the Ice, and he never fails to reappear after a parting
  * When the fear of separation no longer presses so insistently, Maedhros takes to the forges
  * Mostly they are manned by the Khazad, of course. They are busy turning out armor and weapons but the workrooms and the great smithing halls are crowded with elves, too, coming for fittings and adjustments. A corner has been set aside for the smiths of the Forn-ar-Rhûn, as well, under Acharedan
  * It has been a very long time since Maedhros has done smithing of any sort. He starts off with poorer metal and simple apprentice pieces, knowing that his skill has atrophied, until he feels ready to move on. He has plans
  * He pays, after a fashion, for his forge time, by turning out basic fittings and fastenings between sessions on his project. He is taking up space and this way he spares better smiths for the higher-skilled vital tasks
  * “You don’t have to,” Acharedan tells him
  * “I feel I should,” Maedhros says, and the smith simply grunts and continues their work
  * It takes longer than learning his new sword, but finally he finishes his project and cedes his position in the forge, well-pleased with his work
  * “I’ve had a bath drawn,” he tells Fingon when he comes in that afternoon
  * “Are you implying something?” Fingon asks, mock-offended, but Maedhros just presents the box he’s been waiting with and opens it
  * Fingon’s surprised inhale is a sweet reward, as is the pleased disbelief as he reaches in and trails his fingers through the gold
  * Maedhros has spent his time making a near-replica of the ornaments Fingon had worn as High King. The gold he has been wearing since re-embodiment is very sparse, in comparison to what had been in Beleriand, a mix of the entirely plain things the Vanyar provided a few pieces scrounged from Tirion that had not already been taken east as mementos
  * He reaches into the box as well and pulls out a bead to show Fingon what he has changed – the details are different. Instead of Ñolofinwian suns Maedhros had experimented combining the sun and the Fëanorian star to create something like the Silmaril-burst on their standard, and the final design is what he has carefully etched into the gold alongside the texture of feathers
  * “And I made a new crown, too,” he says. “That gold and silver thing from your grandfather doesn’t match anything at all, it’s too Vanyar trying to be Noldor. I didn’t recreate yours like I did for these, but I took the same concept, it’s thematically and aesthetically consistent and will weave in with your braids just like-”
  * Fingon’s smile is watery
  * “So a bath, hm?” he asks, clearly moved by his gift. “Are you finally going to do my hair, Maitimo?”
  * He puts the box down on the bed
  * “That was my plan, yes.”
  * It takes a good while. The decorations always come off easier than they go on, and there are fewer to remove than there are to braid in, but the largest chunk of time is dedicated to Fingon’s hair itself, a combing-washing-combing-drying that can’t be rushed
  * Maedhros savors every moment of it, every second he gets to have his hands in Fingon’s hair, gets to plait gold into black the way he has long wished to, gets to cover Fingon in _his_ presents
  * “I shall have to make you do this every time,” Fingon sighs happily, and nuzzles his hand playfully when he finishes the thickest, most complicated braid. “No more hairdressers for me!”
  * “I am pleased to serve,” Maedhros tells him. “Though I am afraid if you ever wished for something more elaborate, you _will_ have to invest in a dedicated servant, for I would doubtless make a mess of things.”
  * “Nonsense! As if any could outdo a Fëanorian for artistry!”
  * “In metal, none among the Eldar. In hair? I am certain there are many.”
  * “You’ll just have to practice then,” Fingon says, and shakes his head vigorously, grinning happily when the weight of the gold keeps his hair in place and the beads chime
  * “Stop that,” Maedhros scolds. “I haven’t finished!”
  * “I feel so much more myself!” Fingon exclaims. “My head was far too light, I can’t believe I didn’t realize before now!”
  * “Oh, too light, you say?”
  * He finishes twining together two thin braids and moves to stand before him, to preserve the surprise
  * “Maitimo,” Fingon complains when he feels the crown upon his brow
  * “Hush, you don’t let me complain about mine,” he says, fixing it into his hair. It’s fully gold, without silver to clash with the rest of his jewelry, set with amethysts carefully matched to the color Míriel Therindë created for them. Small chips of dark sapphire and the same kind of white opal from his own crown accent the purple
  * “Lord Námo was _very clear,_ ” Fingon says. “I won’t have you try to weasel your way out of a doom that’s mercifully benign, you’ll make it worse trying to efface yourself out of misplaced guilt. Besides, the _actual_ crown was a gift from the Aulenduri _,_ and if you think-”
  * Maedhros tilts his head up, fingers under Fingon’s chin
  * “And this is a gift from me.”
  * “Oh very well,” Fingon concedes after a breathless moment. “Come down here, my love, and kiss me.”
  * “As my King commands,” Maedhros says, and does



* * *

  * “I will not stay,” his daughter had told him
  * “I have been as a daughter to Lord Curufinwë and Lady Menelissë, and they have been as parents to me,” his daughter had told him
  * “I am Idril Tyelperintál as my heart’s brother is Curufinwë Tyelperinquar, I for my skill in the two-bladed dance in battle and he for his skill with his hands on his bow as much as in his craft,” his daughter had told him, head high and eyes flashing and refusing to bend, a Fëanorian as much as any other he has ever seen. “We are of the Cavalry of the March under Prince Tyelkormo and Princess Aredhel, and we are veterans of war, and we have faced a Balrog and won. The Enemy has him, and I will not hide away behind fanciful walls and strong mountains while he suffers! Maybe I cannot free him, but I can avenge him!”
  * They had parted in anger, and shouting, and Turukáno had thought that would be the worst of his night
  * But now he sits at his desk, Elenwë sleeping peacefully in the room beyond his closed study door, his window looking over the valley and his candle guttering in a draft, and stares past the papers that bear the broken seal of his mother in a blank rage
  * He had been prepared to read a plea or an order from his mother to break his secrecy, but _this-_
  * _To Oscarastando Turukáno Ñolofinwion, King of Gondolin,_ his mother had written
  * _Morgoth has moved against us, and I know this time. There will not be much left of the Noldor, soon, if our knowledge holds out_
  * _We were not entirely truthful with you, yonya, not to any of you, about Findekáno and Nelyafinwë’s deaths. We – I and your father, your uncle Fëanáro and your aunt Nerdanel – we were sent a vision by the Fëanturi that first sleep after we lost them, full of knowledge of a time that had been and could again be. It was not your brother and your cousin as you knew them who were murdered in that forest, but two great Lords and Kings of the Noldor possessed of dearly-bought wisdom that came from centuries of loss and Beleriand and evil. Findekáno died for Nelyafinwë; Nelyafinwë died to protect us all from a grievous Doom that would have destroyed us all_
  * _We have avoided the worst of it, us four, until now. In the time your brother and your cousin lived, it was Finwë who was killed for the Silmarils, after a great sowing of discontent amongst the Noldor that pit your father and your elder uncle against each other in heinous ways. Fëanáro went mad with your grandfather’s death and the Noldor of that time were exiled and Doomed to destruction rather than departing freely and with good will to Beleriand_
  * _Our people died there, Turukáno, all of us but Artanis and a scant few descendants. Of our family only she and Tyelperinquar and Findekáno’s son and Itarillë’s grandsons survived here into the Second Age, and only Artanis and one of your great-grandsons to the Third. All others died fighting against the Enemy or against each other – for it came to that, at every end, elves killing elves. Your uncle’s madness propagated itself, for he bound his sons to it, and it destroyed them and it destroyed us_
  * _That is how this came to be, that we learned of it – Nelyafinwë slew himself, in his time, and cast his fëa into the Void as self-punishment. Findekáno went after him, and they found themselves returned here_
  * _We have made a better start of it, us four and your brother and your eldest cousin. We are not Doomed nor exiled. We are not friendless in Beleriand. Your father and his brother are family now in truth, and I believe that your uncle will manage to destroy only himself, if he should fail to his worst impulses. We have given our people kind lives and the Long Peace, but it is broken now and we cannot know what will happen next and what will survive for things are so different now. That the Noldor survived this battle at all in the other time was due to your father and Nelyafinwë, and I do not know if we can this time, for it was Nelyafinwë who held the east and it is in his brothers’ hands because Fëanáro marches on Angband and I cannot believe that he will succeed, and I know even less if his other sons have the strength to hold, or reconquer. They have not been tempered as Nelyafinwë was, for all his trials destroyed him in the end_
  * _In the other time, your father became High King after Fëanáro’s death, and it was in this battle that he met his. In the other time, we lost Dorthonion, and even now an army marches upon Pindost. I do not believe I will survive. Findekáno was High King after but only for a short while – in this time I do not know who the High Kingship will pass to, if it will be Tyelkormo as Fëanáro’s heir or if it might fall to your uncle Arafinwë for his ties to King Thingol. Regardless this is the beginning of the end of us if our knowledge holds true, for Nelyafinwë died soon after Morgoth’s final defeat at the hands of the Ainur and Findekáno had by that time been dead barely longer than a century_
  * _In this time I also do not know if the Valar will send aid, or how they could be convinced to do so – in the other time we were abandoned in our fight against Morgoth as punishment for the crime that took us into exile, and the sequence of events that led to what finally did reach them has here been halted before it could even begin_
  * _I am so sorry to burden you with this knowledge, Turukáno yonya, but soon the only one left of us will be Nerdanel and she is no true fighter. Her sons would die to protect her, but that guarantees nothing. Please, if she survives, work with her; I know you have not seen the betterment of your father’s relationship with your uncle and I know that you have had no great love for your cousins but I would beg you do so for the sake of the Noldor. If that is not enough then I beg you to do so for the sake of your brother Findekáno, who would not want to see us all slain and for whom there is no other but Nelyafinwë for his heart and so would wish you to be cordial with your cousins_
  * _I am so sorry, yonya, but you are the best choice I have, both as my family whom I trust and for our people. It was your city that survived the longest of all the realms of the Noldor in Beleriand and I pray that this holds true. We have been trying to guide the future into a kinder path, and now the burden falls to you_
  * _This is all the advice I can give, Oscarastando: stand by your family, in all things but for if they fall to madness. Kill no other but in self-defense. Swear no oaths you are more afeared to break than to keep. Hold no item nor place above the life of a Child of Eru. The way West is clouded but the path back may be traversed with the assistance of Ulmo or the light of a Silmaril_
  * _I pray I will see you again someday in peace and safety, and that you do not have to pass through the Halls to reach it. I love you, my son, my Oscarstando_
  * Turukáno had not known what he would do, faced with a plea or an order from his mother for help. He still doesn’t know. Ulmo had told him to hold his city in secret against the imperilment of the Noldor, and he is not in the habit of disobeying the Valar
  * But this is something else altogether. This is something _damning_
  * _They knew,_ he thinks in the dark. _‘They’_ could be his parents, who had known and said nothing. _‘They’_ could be the Valar, who had known and sat and done _nothing_. Maybe his brother, somehow, even; because he had gotten himself slain for a man who was twisted enough to have tried to destroy his own soul and now here Turukáno sits, left with a paltry letter that has told him little and an itemized third-hand account of a list of events that may or may not happen without even dates to reference them against and a simple family tree that ends in _Elrond_ and _Elros_ but begins with _Turukáno_ and _Elenwë_ on one side and _Beren_ and _Lúthien_ on the other
  * _They **knew** we would die_
  * _Itarillë_ is connected to _Tuor_. His mother has noted this: _I cannot be certain, but I know something of the naming customs of Men. I think it likely this will be Huor’s son_
  * The night is dark and his hidden valley has favorable weather but it is winter, and the air is chilled. He wishes he could crawl into bed with his wife, could sleep, and wake up in the morning and have forgotten all about this; have his mother’s papers speak of troop movements or supply lines or _anything else_
  * Instead he is stuck here at his desk, bitter and angry, because-
  * _They knew we could not win and that we all would die and they let us come **anyway**_



* * *

  * Caranthir isn’t yet well enough to take over command of Aglon, and Tyelkormo has not yet mustered enough forces to hold both Himring and send reinforcement to Aredhel, when Amras arrives at the head of a mass of part-trained soldiery
  * They hold firm against the newest wave of orcs trying to assault the highlands, so Tyelkormo refrains from yelling at his brother though he _wants_ to, the twins are supposed to be _safe_ in the south-
  * “We won’t _be_ safe if the frontier falls,” Amras retorts, plucking the thought from his head. He _hates_ it when his brother does that! “The Bëorings are moving southeast over the Hills of Nargothrond, they’re going to manage spring planting under the farmer folk who are still there, we’ll still be fed as long as the lines hold, don’t try to send me back over that. Ambarussa is rustling up ships and soldiers and is coordinating with King Círdan and Lalwen, they’re planning a counter-attack in Drengist to support Arafinwë-”
  * Tyelkormo doesn’t even get to ask the question, Amras hears it before he’s finished thinking it
  * “-another army came down into Lammoth through the Ice and the tundra, Findis is dead, Barad Eithel is under siege from both sides, Arafinwë is trying to hold onto Dor-Lómin but is probably going to have to fall back on Nevrast- also Makalaurë and Leithind were in Nargothrond, Laurë and Finrod went off to fight in Talath Dirnen, Sauron took Tol Sirion. Argon’s dead. We heard- it wasn’t a kind death. Anyway, they’re going to do a lot of Singing with an army to back them up, so West Beleriand should be able to manage for a while.”
  * It’s good and important that they finally have news of the west, _but-!_
  * “They’re going to go _sing?_ ” Tyelkormo demands. “At an _Ainu?_ ”
  * “Probably, if they get that far,” Amras says. “If anyone could manage it it would be them, stop worrying.”
  * They are going to lose Makalaurë in Tol Sirion
  * Nelyo, Curvo, Tyelpë, Grandfather, Atar, Ammë, Írissë, Moryo, Laurë, Amrod, Elór-
  * His dead haunt him, even as some of them still live – as he sits by Caranthir and listens to him half-heartedly complain as they watch Amrod tussle on the floor with Elór, knocking over the sprawling complex of wooden block-and-bar construction he and she had made together; as Amrod stares deep into Moryo’s eyes and lends his strength in ósanwë so Erelind can speak with him from Rerir; as Elór asks again and again when Atar and Ammë are coming home and they lie and lie and lie
  * _Nelyo, Curvo, Tyelpë, Grandfather-_
  * His dead haunt him, when Caranthir finally heals and departs to Aglon, where he will try to hold fortifications against Balrogs that can kick apart a cavalry charge and werewolves who fear no treacherous terrain
  * _Atar, Ammë, Írissë, Moryo-_
  * His dead haunt him, when Amras rides away, talking his hastily-trained infantry to back Aredhel against endless waves of orcs they can never hope to outnumber, much less outlast
  * _Laurë, Amrod, Amras, Elór-_



* * *

  * “Come outside with me?” Maedhros asks. It’s nearly spring. The preparations are done. They will be marching within the next week
  * There’s a hesitance to the question, a soft vulnerability lurking behind his eyes, that isn’t quite enough to worry Fingon but has him watchful all the same
  * It is night. The sky is clear and dark and cloudless; the moon is new and so the stars shine all the brighter. The snow crunches and glows underfoot. Starlight catches in their condensing breath and pools in the air
  * They are out on the western slope of the mountain, where natural terraces shelter frozen falling streams and holly groves whose leaves are dark and deep in the night’s light
  * Maedhros stands facing him, holding both his hands in his. He stares for a moment, then tips his head skywards to watch the stars
  * After a minute-
  * “Maedhros?” Fingon asks quietly, not wanting to disturb the late winter night’s peace
  * Maedhros looks back down at him
  * “Sorry,” he says, just as quiet. “Old thoughts. Old fears.”
  * Fingon strokes what bit of Maedhros’s left hand he can reach with his thumb
  * “Did you want to talk about something? Or are we enjoying the night and the sky and the land?”
  * Maedhros drops his eyes this time, to their entwined hands
  * “This deserves a speech, after everything. But I find I cannot make one.”
  * Fingon is about to reassure him but Maedhros looks up, and looks in his eyes, and quietly, anxiously, asks: “Marry me?”
  * As though that _needs_ a speech, it barely needs the question, he’s been asking for _so long-_
  * Fingon chokes up and sympathizes with Maedhros’s plight. Words are hard and inadequate
  * Maedhros is looking very concerned for him now, and worried, like maybe he thinks Fingon has changed his mind after already having asked _seven entire times_ and _going after him into the Void_
  * “Now,” Fingon says, the word only half-thought before being spoken, rough with an emotion he can’t name
  * “We are headed towards war,” Maedhros explains, taking it as a question. “I do not want to die again, without- and I am afeared of other things, Findekáno, to my shame. I did not ask in Aman for fear that the Valar would declare us kin too close, or too sinful, or unworthy or wrong and forbid us if I had given them the chance; and when we arrive in Beleriand I fear what our families will do, if we give them opportunity to interfere. I fear that even now I might capitulate to my father’s temper and desires though I _know_ better and love you so-”
  * “I would forgive you of it,” Fingon tells him, teary. “It would hurt so, if you did; but I would forgive you and love you still.”
  * “If I did such I would not deserve it.”
  * “As if you would not do the same if I distanced myself to quiet the objections of my father,” Fingon counters
  * “Your father would not ask.”
  * “No, he has merely implied very strongly that it would be better if I did, and every time I refused to acknowledge that he had done it; and so for his entire kingship we were always, at greater or lesser levels of tension, passive-aggressively fighting about my loyalties.”
  * Maedhros sighs
  * “I do not mean to come between you.”
  * “Oh, I know,” Fingon says. “I’m sure he’s just as mad about my second daring rescue as he is scared for my well-being, that was how it went the first time around. Really, though, I feel we all should have anticipated it. What life do I have without you?”
  * “One less fraught with complications.”
  * “One I am uninterested in having,” Fingon shoots back
  * Then he softens. They’ve strayed, and something important has been left unspoken
  * “Maitimo,” he says. “Yes, of course I will.”
  * The answering smile is wavering but sincere, and Maedhros’s eyes are bright in the moments before he hides his face against the top of Fingon’s head
  * “I have no rings, of gold nor of silver,” he says into his hair. “In a year we will be in Beleriand; and if we had our fathers to stand for us we would have been long since wed.”
  * “As if I care!” Fingon replies. His tears are cold on his face, but this is how marriages are made – under the stars, in the first light of Arda, Eru’s harbingers of their people – and the winter night will not bother him. He hopes he thinks of this, when cold vexes him in the future, and not of the Ice
  * “I feel we must do _something_ of this properly, if only to balance out the scandal.”
  * “We have waited far longer than a year,” Fingon says, pulling back just enough that Maedhros raises his head and they can look each other in the eyes again. “And you have given me your crown and your heart and I have saved your life and your soul, all of which are worth far more than rings. All I wish of you is your love, as I have always desired and possessed; and your pledge, if you would finally so honor me and forever grace me with joy and bliss.”
  * Maedhros laughs, weakly, wetly
  * “And I am the one known for my speeches!” he tries to joke, but they are both too overwhelmed with what they have finally come to for anything but solemn and joyous love for one another
  * When Maedhros lifts Fingon’s hands to his lips to kiss them, they are dampened by his tears
  * “Sílaroquen Findekáno Astaldo Tar-Maltya Ñolofinwion,” Maedhros says, and all is quiet and calm under the light of the bright stars and the shining snow. The universe is listening. “This I swear to you: that as Manwë is the Breath of Arda, so you are the Breath of mine own body; and that as Varda lit the heavens in the great darkness, so you are the light of my soul. Hear and witness, O Eru Ilúvatar, this my vow and my desire: that I am bound for all the Ages of Arda, Marred and Remade, to he for whom my heart sings and to he for whom you made I.”
  * “Maitimo Nelyafinwë Russandol Óravantaimo Fëanárion,” Fingon says and he cannot see for the tears but Maedhros’s fëa is bright, so close and yet not within reach-
  * “This I swear to you: that as Manwë is the Breath of Arda, so you are the Breath of mine own body; and that as Varda lit the heavens in the great darkness, so you are the light of my soul. Hear and witness, O Eru Ilúvatar, this my vow and my desire: that I am bound for all the Ages of Arda, Marred and Remade, to he for whom my heart sings and to he for whom you made I.”
  * It is the swell and gentle crash of waves upon the shore and the settling of mist in the early morning hills; the delicate softness of petals and the downy undercoat of a beloved pet; the half-asleep contentment of a lover’s presence in the serene night and the warm peace of a familiar hearth after long absence
  * Fingon sobs, utterly consumed by their tender envelopment in each other, and reaches up, out, blindly, to cup his husband’s face and stroke the familiar lines and planes
  * “There you are,” he whispers brokenly, full of awe, and cradles the fëa he has been gifted and feels his gentled in return, both of them reaching out and melding in this space in creation that is just for them. “ _Mírima_ , _anmaira_ , most precious beloved-”
  * “Estel-nîn,” Maedhros breathes, a benediction. _“Kánya-”_
  * He holds him tightly, fiercely
  * “Never again,” Fingon’s husband cries and Fingon leans into him, hroä and fëa, and says: _yes yes yes forever always never again forever always._ “We cannot be parted; I cannot lose you _ever again-!_ ”




	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since last I updated I put up a meta collection! If you want to see maps of where people are or a list of names/titles and meanings, that's the place to go.

  * He’d given in
  * In the morning, he will rise. Servants will descend; he will be cleaned and dressed and made up. He will be escorted to the throne room
  * In the morning, Fëanor will be High King of the Noldor
  * Now, in the night, he lays in bed with Nerdanel equally as sleepless next to him, consumed with grief and his regrets
  * _Am I making the right choice?_
  * He hears the sheets shift as his wife turns onto her side
  * _You are,_ she affirms
  * _I wish-_
  * He wishes that he didn’t have to make his choice. That his father was alive. That Ñolofinwë was alive; that tomorrow he would be attending his _brother’s_ coronation and that he could be the one to stand at his right hand and be whatever support was needed, his own need for action and his intellect and his volatility tempered by a true High King
  * Nerdanel strokes his hair
  * _He’s well,_ she says. _He’s in the Halls_
  * That is no comfort at all
  * But-
  * _Will he tell him?_ Fëanor asks plaintively. _That we love him?_
  * He can see it in his mind’s eye – his brother awaking in the Halls, reunited at last with his son. The embrace Ñolofinwë and Findekáno would share, the words of comfort and reassurance, the true and full-hearted acceptance his brother would give and his nephew would be so happy to receive
  * _Of course he will,_ Nerdanel says, and builds the scene with him, grief passing easily between them
  * Ñolofinwë would keep Findekáno close, would tell him he loved him – and then reach out to Nelyafinwë, and approve their love, and tell them of the bettered relationship between their fathers, and tell Nelyafinwë that he was loved, that he was missed, that Fëanor and Nerdanel have thought of him often and hope desperately for his healing and _love him,_ love him so much, and are so sorry-
  * _Do you think he’s better?_ both of them wonder and Fëanor remembers pounding on the walls of Mandos and the Doomsman appearing to him, remembers the awful fate that the Judge had proclaimed
  * Nelyafinwë has been dead nearly five hundred years. It is a little enough time compared to how long Míriel has been gone, and their son _‘suffered more greatly’_ than she
  * _No,_ he thinks, and it tears at his heart but he can imagine it easily, Nelyafinwë in torment in the Halls, in agony at having to live with himself, insensate with his pain and immune to comfort even from Findekáno
  * It comes easily to Nerdanel, too; but from her rises her amilöre, the sight of him comforting Elór
  * _A little better, he has to be_
  * _Or Elór is the first to reach him,_ Fëanor thinks pessimistically, because that’s another easy thing to imagine, their eldest learning of a sibling in need and hauling himself into pained functionality to provide for her
  * Nerdanel pushes against that, with the hope that has always been easier for her, and he tries to accept it
  * _She won’t be alone,_ he offers, and the scene changes again – Elór, with Nelyafinwë but also Findekáno, and Ñolofinwë, and Caranthir, and Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar and Menelissë. And Finwë, because if they are being unrealistic optimists- _She’ll have people she’s familiar with. Family she knows_
  * _I hope we see her again, before-_ Nerdanel wishes but this is where her hope fails, because she is of the right age to die and there is a war on and the Noldor are falling
  * Fëanor has nothing comforting to offer, and so they lay in silence, in their own thoughts, bereft, until finally they sleep



* * *

  * Losereg is the very first person they see the next morning. They see their marriage bond in their eyes, whoop in excited delight, and pelt down the corridor shouting about it; so naturally everyone knows within the hour
  * “You didn’t _tell me,_ ” Saratië says tetchily. She and Rúmil have the room next to theirs, and they’ve taken to having breakfast together. Losereg catching them first had just been luck. “I’m supposed to give you things! I don’t have anything!”
  * “No one has much, Grand-aunt,” Maedhros says. “It’s fine, truly.”
  * Rúmil congratulates them as Saratië glares and insists that it’s _not,_ she’s going to go hunting and find them a deer or something else suitably festive
  * Losereg swings back around after breakfast with Gwirilan, Laichorn, and a troop of other Green-elves, who drop crowns of holly woven through with ribbon on their heads and are already giddy, though surely more with the occasion than with the alcohol they’re already drinking
  * “You have to _celebrate,_ ” Gwirilan insists, trying to hand off skeins to both of them. “You’re married! You’re happy! And _we’re_ happy! _Anin Erein!_ ”
  * _“Anin Erein!”_ the group yells back enthusiastically
  * Fingon and Maedhros walk around the rest of the day with their holly crowns, Fingon bearing it with more aplomb and self-assurance. Everyone who sees them offers congratulations in their own way, Green-elves boisterously toasting, Sindar composing short verse pieces, and dwarves pronouncing traditional blessings in the name of Mahal
  * The stand-outs are the elves from the dark by way of Cuiviénen, who have such an amalgam of different stages of development of the same marriage customs that entire thing ends up being rather incoherent. Saratië insists on hunting; Acharedan tells them they’re forging a matched pair of knives to symbolize the occasion; Saelon presents them with a charm-bundle meant to grace and protect their threshold
  * Thaladis hunts them down around noon with a set, determined expression, trailing a high court functionary who serves as one of King Durin and Queen Móstgnira’s seneschals. She’s resolved to outdo everyone else and she has – she’d taken the news personally to the rulers of Khazad-dûm, on the basis that they’re both Princes of the Noldor and should expect grand occasions to mark the milestones of their lives
  * (“I got them a party,” will be what she triumphantly claims as her gift to them, even Ages from now)
  * This is how they end up having a wedding feast, two days before the armies are due to begin their march west. Technically it’s serving double-duty as a farewell party and a marriage celebration, as the feast had been planned for the departure, but marriage is a happier occasion than war
  * Maedhros and Fingon receive a very fine set of feasting goblets from the monarchs of Khazad-dûm as their wedding gift, golden things with sapphires and rubies and amethysts and eagle bases. They thank Durin and Móstgnira profusely, and Maedhros ends up making a speech about war and friendship and victory and light against the Shadow
  * The feast stretches past midnight, and the next day, everyone begins making final preparations. Supplies are double-checked and inventoried, last-minute fittings and adjustments are made, and-
  * “What happened to my saddle?” Fingon asks, staring at his horse, a heavy-hoofed blue roan mare named Fáraumië, who at least doesn’t seem too bothered by- _this_
  * “It’s your wedding present!” Losereg tells him, sounding very pleased. “For both of you, because now it’s easy to tell where you are, without the flag!”
  * “ _You’re_ the standard-bearer, Losereg.”
  * “And I still think it’s silly to go around carrying it in battle, how am I supposed to fight with it?”
  * “You’re _supposed_ to stay near me, and you’re in the midst of my guard-”
  * “And Maedhros has plenty of stories about you outpacing your guard.”
  * “As if _he’s_ never abandoned his,” Fingon complains. “I mean it, Losereg, how am I supposed to ride like that? You put… _wings,_ on my ”
  * “They’re on the saddle,” they correct. “It’s a device of the elves on the wide plains in the further east! It marks their ride-leaders, by sight and by sound. It won’t hinder you or her at all.”
  * The wings are two upright pieces of wood, slightly curved at the top towards the front of the saddle, with the pinion feathers of eagles affixed to the backside. They certainly _look_ like they will be a hindrance
  * “Try it,” Lorsereg urges, and Fingon gives in, mounting up and putting Fáraumië through some paces. It truly doesn’t bother her, and he takes the time after each new gait to ask her if she feels off-balance or the saddle unstable
  * Satisfied on that matter at least, he’s testing range of motion with bow and sword when interest and curiosity flickers across his marriage bond. He stops to look – Maedhros has come out of the mountain and is standing at the foot of the East-gate stairs, watching him from across the valley
  * “Want to run?” Fingon asks Fáraumië. She tosses her head and gives a brief warning before she rears, displaying for their distant audience, and launches into a trot that builds to a canter that’s soon a full charge towards his husband and Losereg and the stables
  * _Very nice,_ he hears from Maedhros when they’re halfway across, the words carrying artistic approval and definite appreciation. _You look distinctly gallant_
  * _Intimidating?_ Fingon asks, gauging when they’ll have to slow to avoid running anyone over
  * _Indomitable,_ Maedhros answers, and shows him the scene from his view – Fingon charging with the sun behind him, shining off his cavalry armor and his hair, glowing in the feathers and flashing on his sword. To his husband’s eyes he seems powerful and glorious
  * The way Losereg is smiling as he and Fáraumië loop back around to a stop before them says that they’ve guessed their gift has been approved
  * “The standard is still important,” Fingon tells them, because he’d argued the point and he’s sticking to it
  * “Oh yes,” Losereg agrees. “It was a gift from your family! It should be treated well and not dragged into dangerous battles that will damage it, when we have no one of comparative skill to repair it.”
  * That’s a point he can’t dispute- no, he _can_
  * “The surcoats were made with just as much skill.”
  * “Formal clothes!” they counter gayly. “And now you can have the standard on the march _and_ for court displays, because it will stay clean! It’s practical to have the wings.”
  * “I’m not certain that’s how Queen Míriel intended for us to use them.”
  * “The feathers match your hair decorations.”
  * They _do,_ curse their friends’ care and attention. They know him too well
  * “The wings are _thematic,_ ” Losereg continues, grinning unrepentantly. “And like I said! Now you’re very recognizable on the battlefield at a glance! It will give Maedhros peace of mind.”
  * “I do like how you look with them,” Maedhros admits aloud, the traitor
  * “And we all know that the aesthetic is the most important thing to the Noldor,” Losereg adds
  * “Stop teasing me,” Fingon complains, and dismounts. This the last test and the winged saddle passes it- he has no difficulties reaching the ground
  * “If your hair ornaments were steel you wouldn’t need a helmet. We’ll stop when stop proving us right.”



* * *

  * Ladros holds out longer than expected – it is mid-spring by the time Hador falls back to Pindost
  * Not that Pindost is much safer, by that point. There have been incursions into Dorthonion from the Fens and from Brethil through the Pass of Aglon for weeks
  * “My grandsons?” is the first thing Hador asks when he is met by the steward of the fortress
  * “Lady Anairë sent them away with Princess Idril, to Gondolin,” the steward informs him
  * Well, they’d made it here, at least. And if they had arrived in Gondolin, they would be much safer there
  * He’s already lost their father. He’d rather not lose them, too
  * “I’ll go see her, then,” he says; but the steward’s expression changes incrementally and Hador has the sudden suspicion that his liege lady has not come to receive him for some other reason than being occupied with the war
  * “What?”
  * “Lord Hador…”
  * The steward doesn’t elaborate in any meaningful way, but Hador finally manages to pressure him into letting him up to see her
  * The tower room is dark and cold. He’d been expecting a sickroom, but even with the power elves could bring to bear, this isn’t healing conditions for any affliction he can think of
  * “Lady Anairë?” he asks
  * “You live,” comes the answer, raspy and low like the voice of no elf he has before heard
  * Hador’s eyes adjust to the dark and he sees thick blankets mounted over the windows to block the light. Lady Anairë is lying in bed, sheets twisted and thrown off
  * “I do, my lady,” he says, and cautiously steps closer. “Are you in need of a healer, or-?”
  * Now that he’s closer he can see that she’s shivering, as though she truly is sick. Her elf-bright eyes have a sharp glow about them, a feverish light
  * His breath is misting in the air. Elves are hardy folk, but he knows that when people are taken with fever or chill, sometimes what they need is the opposite of what they feel. It would be presumptuous of him to detangle the sheets and pull them up over her, but elves are inexperienced with illness, and perhaps she doesn’t realize
  * “No healer can avail me,” Lady Anairë says through clenched teeth and Hador hesitates, unsure if he needs to reevaluate. The Lady of Dorthonion sounds almost as though she is about to berserk, but yet she is still lying abed and seems disinclined to move. “Unless they can slay the Enemy.”
  * “Likely not, my lady,” he says, definitely cautious now. _Something_ is afflicting her, and while he does not want to think it, it’s possible that if Lady Anairë poses a danger to others, the garrison of Pindost would rather isolate her in this tower room than risk being accused of murdering a Princess
  * _“He has my husband,”_ she hisses, hate dripping from her words as she tenses against some pain, eyes clenching closed briefly. _“Eru damn him he has **my husband-** ”_
  * There are many things to envy elves for – their long lives, their power, their certainty of their place in the world
  * Until just now, Hador would have added the soul bond of their marriages to that list. He had wished often enough for such a thing, when his sworn duty kept him far from his wife in Ladros
  * “My lady-”
  * “You’ve caught me on a bad day, Lord Hador,” she says, forcing the words. “They happen more often n-”
  * She half-gasps, half-chokes and loathing flares in her eyes as her face twists in sourceless pain
  * It’s impulse, and instinct, to grab for her hand. Lady Anairë presses joints and bones together hard enough to bruise his fingers
  * “They won’t let him close his mind,” she rasps a few moments later, through trickling tears. “I can block some, but they’re too strong for m-”
  * Another long, hard grip on his hand
  * “Have to concentrate,” she explains. “To keep from. Feeling. _Torture-_ ”
  * She’s gone for long minutes, this time. Hador waits, anxious, uncertain of what he should do or if he should do anything at all, startling when one of her legs jerks at the knee, flinching as though struck
  * A harsh breath out, in, heralds her return
  * “Lord Hador,” Lady Anairë says. “While I am. Indisposed. Take command. Do not let- make it dear. If Pindost must fall.”
  * “We will not,” Hador promises, quite certain of this. The great monster of a beast Glaurung has driven them from one place of safety, and they will not lose another to him. Pindost’s walls are thick and strong, and her soldiers hardy
  * _“Good,”_ Anairë says, bearing her teeth in a vicious not-grin, and squeezes his hand in approval this time, instead of pain. _“Go.”_



* * *

  * “Your Majesty,” a runner gasps, half-skidding on the stone floor. “At the wall-!”
  * Fëanor abandons his meeting without saying a word, intent on whatever is cause for such alarm. Halfway to the palace doors, Nerdanel reaches out to him, sharing the view of Indis on the battlements, as seen from one of the siege engineer yards. The former High Queen is looking out over the wall, head high, with an edge about her-
  * The shared vision darkens, and he can hear, as though from a distance, Sauron’s presence
  * He breaks into a run
  * By the time he reaches the walls, Nerdanel has ascended to stand with Indis. He takes the stairs two at a time to join them
  * There is a clear area before the walls, where the besieging army has removed their dead. Sauron stands there, still wearing the hroä that is an unnaturally-beautiful imitation, a travesty of a mockery, of Nelyafinwë’s
  * Arafinwë slumps at his feet, arms bound behind his back. There is dried blood and muck on his armor, but someone has washed and treated his hair so it gleams golden even in the weak light that filters through the ashy clouds out of the north
  * _Greetings, Your Majesty,_ Sauron says, hands curling in Arafinwë’s hair; and he needs say nothing else, Fëanor knows what is about to happen
  * The Noldor have lost one High King riding out to rescue, and one Prince who should have been King
  * They will not lose another
  * Sauron is going to kill Arafinwë and Fëanor is going to stand here and _watch_ because he will not leave and he will not ride
  * _I believe I have something of yours, Finwion High King_
  * “I will make no parley with you,” Fëanor says, letting his voice carry. “Nor bargains, nor deals. You are without honor. You lie and you deceive and I will not be taken by your tricks.”
  * _Tricks?_ Sauron asks, gently amused. The hand twists in golden hair. _No, this is exactly what it seems. Dor-Lómin and Nevrast are mine. I have slaughtered the grandson before the eyes of the grandfather; I have left the son wretched before the father_
  * A discordant multi-layered twanging- the mangled remains of a harp hit hard-packed ground as Finrod’s battle standard is carelessly discarded in the dirt before them
  * Fëanor hears Indis gasp or moan in distress but he is focused on the harp
  * It is not so broken that he cannot see his own star inlaid in silver on the wood
  * _Will you come out and sing with me, Your Majesty?_ Sauron taunts. _Kanafinwë you named your son, and I see why you let such a fool dodge being your heir. A little songbird pretending to be a mighty eagle! He thought I was his brother! But there is grace even for such grievous errors. If he is a courteous guest, my Lord will give him the choice of keeping his hands or his tongue_
  * “I will not,” Fëanor says, holding back the rage and the fury and Nerdanel is reflecting his horror but he lets her stare down his darkness, this time, as he had not in Himring
  * He has cost her Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë and Morifinwë
  * He will not cost her himself
  * He feels like breaking, like burning, but he will hold. For her
  * _A sally then? I await you with pleasure_
  * “You mistake me, Sauron Gorthaur,” he says, projecting, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I will not match you with song nor sword. You will not tempt me out from these walls.”
  * Morgoth’s lieutenant smiles, a slow uncurling of viciousness
  * _Is this how you speak of cowardice now? Weak works and gutless rhetoric? Fëanáro you are not but Fëahwesta, as impotent as a puff of air in the humid height of summer!_
  * A moment- Fëanor is certain that Sauron is waiting for anger, for yelling, for seething rage
  * He refuses to oblige
  * A moment- Sauron’s head cants ever so slightly to the side, considering
  * He changes tactics
  * _Oh, but no, it is not weakness but cruelty! For since when does Fëanáro Therindion bestir himself for the misbegotten children of Indis? Doubtless you will enjoy this_
  * Fëanor clenches his hands on the stone of the battlements, knuckles paling
  * He cannot refute that once, he might have. He cannot convince anyone that he will not take some secret twisted pleasure from seeing one of his father’s other sons die in pain. His youngest brother is going to be killed thinking that this is the desire of his King; Indis is going to watch and she will-
  * A _twang-fwish_ from beside him; an arrow sprouts through Arafinwë’s throat
  * Indis is stone-still, even with grief and hatred and rage driving her tears. The bow she has taken from a guard is still raised
  * Sauron tsks in disapproval
  * _Hasty,_ he chides, and pulls the arrow out. Blood spills and Arafinwë’s choking noises are audible from here. _We haven’t even started yet_
  * Indis’s second arrow takes Sauron in the eye. The Maia wearing the facsimile of Nelyafinwë freezes a moment, the reaches up to pull this shaft out as well. It takes the eye with it, and both burn in his grasp with a scowl
  * Fëanor reaches out to place a hand on her arm, to stop her from firing a third time. It is part about the unwise provocation and part about that he does not think he could stand to see another arrow in his son, even if it is-
  * Indis cracks him across the face with the bow
  * “Say what you will of me!” she spits at him, bitterly, heatedly, low with hatred. Nerdanel raises a hand to halt the guards uncertainly converging on them as Fëanor rocks back on his heels in surprise at the blow. “That I am an adulteress, that I am heartless, that I am a seductress, that I am an agent of my brother meant to control the Noldor! Say even that I do not love Finwë – I will not deny it! But _do not_ doubt my love for my children; nor what I will do for them!”
  * _Don’t,_ comes the thought, weak, and- it’s Arafinwë
  * He’s spoken to them both, mind-to-mind, in this moment when Indis has caused Sauron’s control to slip the smallest fraction of a hair. It is a fleeting single word but it carries with it the idea of rescue, of sally, of fighting
  * Sauron is bearing down on them but Fëanor leans into his marriage bond and he and Nerdanel flare against the corrupted Maia, fighting fire with fire, and Fëanor pulls Indis in close to her son and promises him: _I will not_
  * He puts all the conviction he has into it, backs it with the idea of weathering, of perseverance, of endurance. He strengthens it not with love – he does not know Arafinwë well enough to truly say he loves him, but he does not _hate_ He gives his acknowledgement, his respect, and his knowing regret for what is about to befall his brother
  * They are forced apart, the mental connections broken by a greater power than them. Sauron is angered now, and Arafinwë is going to pay for it
  * But the youngest of Finwë’s children is looking up at them, blood still running down his throat, with a quiet strength of acceptance in his eyes. He will die, but he will not break, and he will not be alone in the tortures Sauron is about to inflict upon him
  * Fëanor and Indis stand on the walls of Barad Eithel, and bear witness



* * *

  * They make their first waypoint on time, crossing the Mitheithel just north of where it meets the Glanduin, forming a large clear wetland named for the swans who inhabit it. The great rivers of eastern Eriador flood with springmelt from the Misty Mountains every year, and it is only days after their crossing that they hear the news of the Dwarf-road bridge they’d forded near being washed out
  * “Happens every spring,” Durin sighs. “Never have been able to figure where our engineers are going wrong.”
  * “Waters run strongly,” Maedhros remarks. “Sometimes, they simply cannot be contained.”
  * “True enough,” the other king acknowledges, and they continue riding together in companionable silence, Maedhros on his horse and Durin on his war-goat
  * Their next river is the Baranduin, which they cross at a place named Sarn Ford. It is a robust trading-town, and their host causes quite the commotion upon it’s arrival. They still have a ways to travel after this on the Dwarf-road, but they will be turning off north between the River Lhûn and the Hills of Evendim. From there, they will have a choice: take the pass through the Blue Mountains past Mount Rerir into Thargelion, or go further north and around the spur of the mountain range into Lothlann
  * They stop for a span of days by Sarn Ford, restocking and resting. They have pushed hard to get so far so fast, but they cannot arrive exhausted, and they have had it easy so far with the road. They will not have it for much longer
  * “I know that going through the Pass of Rerir will take us past your side of the family,” Fingon says. They’re on the west bank of the Baranduin, and he’s trying to skip rocks. “But it gets us into Beleriand faster.”
  * “It puts us right against the front lines of the Enemy,” Maedhros argues, watching the clouds. “If go north, we can come at them from behind.”
  * “And supply lines?”
  * “So long as we keep our backs to northern Eriador until we break the line, we will have a place to retreat. If we come in from the west directly, we will strain the supplies of a land already under siege, and weaken the very forces we aim to reinforce.”
  * “But will the frontier have broken by the time we’re in position to do anything to help?”
  * They’re both making fair points and they both know it. It’s not a new discussion, but they don’t have the knowledge to make an informed decision
  * They will have to guess, when the time comes, and hope they have made the better choice



* * *

  * The Cavalry of the March has not been routed yet and that is a miracle, pure and simple
  * They cannot hold a solid line, not with only a half-trained infantry behind them that has taken heavy losses all through spring. Companies of orcs break through into Nedhelion regularly, and Tyelkormo has been riding out after them for weeks
  * But the line has not broken. The Pass of Aglon stands firm
  * It’s only a respite and they know it. Even with the massive numbers and new foul beasts Caranthir had reported spewing from Angband, the Enemy’s forces are not endless. Morgoth has committed himself heavily against Barad Eithel and Pindost. Once West Beleriand is fallen, they will be next
  * They have done their best to prepare. Erelind has laid away stores in Mount Rerir and has evacuated the majority of Pel Helevorn. Most of the civilians are ready to flee south towards Amon Ereb or the Falls of the Sirion or Belegost and Nogrod on a moment’s notice, but in the meantime try for an early summer crop. Aglon and Himring are as fortified and stocked as they can be
  * Tyelkormo is sludging back down the road from Estolad to Himring, leading his field group back to the fortress after destroying yet another orc raid, when they are hailed by a figuring emerging onto the road far ahead of them
  * They appear an elf. That may mean nothing
  * But any group that Tyelkormo leads has the advantage of Huan, who has perked his ears up at the person ahead of them but shows no signs of distress
  * Tyelkormo orders that they proceed. With caution, still, but with some confidence
  * “Hail to Tyelkormo the Silver, High King of the Noldor,” the elf says when they are close enough to speak
  * He recognizes this man; and if he hadn’t, the accent would still betray his origins
  * “Hail to Beleg Cúthalion, Marchwarden of Doriath,” Tyelkormo greets him in turn. “Strange to see you so far from your forests.”
  * Beleg bows shallowly
  * “I will return swiftly, now that I have found you,” he says. “I was bid to bring news by mine own King, on pleading of Princess Eärwen. Talath Dirnen is fallen, and Arafinwë Finwion is slain. Last we had news Finrod Felagund and your brother Makalaurë were yet missing in battle. Nargothrond holds still under Queen Amarië, and the Falas under King Círdan, but elsewise West Beleriand is lost. Morgoth will turn his attentions here in short order.”
  * “And does King Thingol deign to offer assistance to his neighbors?”
  * “He _deigns,_ ” Beleg replies testily, and Tyelkormo doesn’t care about the tone he took with the Marchwarden, the East has been under erratic siege for months and is about to break and he has run himself ragged trying to hold it together against the inevitable. “To provide news and warning, which you would not otherwise have gotten.”
  * Huan noses at his boot and Tyelkormo snaps: _Nelyo would do better!_ at himself and makes some kind of diplomatic reply he doesn’t actually pay attention to, occupied with considering what he will have to order next
  * Back to Himring, first. Messages to Caranthir, to Aredhel and Amras, to Erelind, to Grandfather Mahtan in Belegost where he has been trying to entreat aid from the dwarves. Send some reinforcements to Caranthir; send everyone else to the Cavalry
  * They will not have long to rest before they are headed out to battle again. They will not win, but they must try to stem the tide, to give those south of them the time to retreat to safer havens and to complete their defenses
  * He’s going to die, he knows. It is not foresight, at least he does not think it is, but rather simple surety. He will ride out to reinforce Aredhel, and the Cavalry will break, and he will die on the field
  * He will die, like his father, like Nelyafinwë, like his grandfather
  * So determined, they all had been, to save what was already lost. He’d thought himself better, but he is not. He cannot stop this. He cannot save this
  * _Nelyo, Curvo, Tyelpë,_ his horse’s hooves beat out on the paving stones of Himring’s gateyard
  * _Grandfather, Atar, Ammë,_ say his footsteps on the stairs he climbs. It is night, but he does as he promised weeks ago, and goes to wake his sister. She is scared for them all, and he has promised – every time he returns, he comes to see her first. No matter the time, no matter what she is doing
  * _Laurë_ is the dull thunk of the door of his chambers closing; _Elór,_ the thud of his discarded boots on the floor; _Moryo,_ the creak of his bed as he flops down and looks blankly at the ceiling
  * _Írissë,_ hisses the flame as he catches the candle in his lantern. _Amrod_ , says the base of the brass dish meeting his desk, next to the lantern where the metal will heat and the sealing wax will melt. _Amras,_ rustles the parchment he lays out
  * They are dead and dying, all of them
  * _I, Tyelkormo Turkafinwë Fëanárion, called the Silver, High King of the Noldor, Head of the House of Fëanor, Lord of Himring, so declare that upon the event of my death, that the order of my succession shall pass as follows: first to Carnistir Morifinwë my younger brother the crown and the headship, should he still live; then to Ambarussa Pityafinwë the same; then to Ambarussa Umbarto Telufinwë the same; then to Hánormelda Ñolórë my younger sister the crown and the headship under the regency of our grandfather Mahtan Aulendur and our marriage-sister Ingortári Orolinda Nincalimiel; then to Herifinwa Lúlissë Morifinwiel my niece under the regency of her great-grandfather and her mother as aforementioned; then to Kemnalaurë Tintelsarndë Morifinwiel the same, then to Imbëringwissë Laiqasarndë Morifinwiel the same. Should the House of Fëanor be so exhausted then I declare that my heir shall be Tárivalatëa Írissë Ñolofinwiel, called Aredhel the White, who shall then be High Queen of the Noldor and Lady of Himring. If she should also have passed to the West then I declare that Aramindis Itarillë Túrukaniel, called Idril Tyelperintál, Princess of Gondolin, shall be my heir. In either instance I beseech the loyal followers of the House of Fëanor to accept her as their Lady though I declare them in such circumstance free of all bonds and oaths to the First Princely House of the Noldor, for there will be no one to hold to on this side of the Sea-_



* * *

  * His daughter has not spoken to him in days, not since he had told her that he cannot go against Lord Ulmo’s will and protection and break the secrecy of Gondolin
  * Itarillë has been speechifying against him at the foot of the Tower of the King, doing her best to rally up some kind of a fighting force
  * Fëanorian he’d thought her and it is his uncle she most resembles, standing there in her armor with her hair unbound and her eyes flashing. He remembers public speeches in Tirion and the memory is harsher for that Gondolin is made in the image of the city upon Túna and the Tower of the King could be the Mindon Eldaliéva
  * His wife has pulled away too, but that is his own fault. How can he tell her what his mother has passed to him? Elenwë knows he is keeping secrets and she does not know how to speak to him of it. She has taken to the young Lords of Ladros instead
  * It’s good someone is there for them. Turukáno knows he cannot be, not even with the knowledge that it is likely the younger one will be his daughter’s husband’s father
  * _I cannot betray my people and my city,_ he tells himself as he watches his daughter from one of the palace windows, concealed from the notice of those below by the angle and a half-drawn curtain. _I cannot break their peace and shatter their lives. They deserve better than war_
  * They’ve had a taste of it, of course, in the Dagor-nuin-Giliath when they’d first arrived. But not everyone is made to be a warrior, and even those who excel in the martial arts often long for their skills to be relevant only on the trial-field or in the tourney. There is glory there, and fame and honor, without the death and destruction and misery that Beleriand can so easily bring
  * Turukáno does not exactly wish that they had remained in Aman. He would not have Gondolin if the Noldor had remained, or if he had. There are friends who would not have met, spouses who would not have married. They have good lives, here; and truly are safer than they were in Tirion, where Morgoth knew where to find them
  * But there is no war in Aman, and when he and Elenwë had thought Itarillë lost and had struggled to know if and when to mourn her, it had been easy for Turukáno’s thoughts to turn bitterly to the home they had left, where his daughter would have been free to roam in safety and would not have been-
  * Itarillë is alive, but it as the cost of her innocence. She has been in battle. She has killed. She has called others her parents; she has adopted a brother
  * Is he to lose his _whole family_ to his proud half-cousins? Findekáno first, to Nelyafinwë the favorite of the favored Fëanorians, Nelyafinwë who is charismatic and beautiful and keen-minded in a way Turukáno has never been able to match, too serious and plain and accomplished in nothing that could be brilliantly presented before a crowd – he’d lost Findekáno before he’d even been _born,_ and now he is supposed to live with the knowledge that Findekáno would _choose_ to throw _his family_ away for _Maitimo Nelyafinwë Fëanárion,_ who couldn’t even be bothered to _stay?_
  * And Írissë, always along with Turkafinwë for their hunting and their sport, for weeks in the woods and for wrestling and ambushes and a kind of thoughtless physicality that has always had people gossiping; or spending time with Curufinwë at the forges, arguing about anything and everything, just for the dubious fun of it
  * (Arakáno, at least, had stayed away; but he has always stayed away from everyone, interested more in his solitude than in company. Turukáno has _tried_ to be a brother, but his siblings have never-)
  * Not that they were all of it, no. Makalaurë and Findekáno had shared some music interests; the Ambarussat had joined Írissë and Turkafinwë on hunts often enough
  * And now his _daughter_ has gone over to them too, had left and left them worried and grieving and unknowing of her fate, and has returned claiming the caustic second coming of Fëanáro as a father of choice
  * He has already been failing, somehow, to keep his family. He will not fail his people as well
  * Turukáno will not rouse his city to war. The Noldor are lost already, his mother says- then they are lost
  * Gondolin will survive




	15. Chapter 14

  * It had taken Arafinwë days to die
  * Fëanor had learned what hate truly was, in those days; those long days of torture before the walls, the days that ended with Finrod’s banner desecrated with his father’s gore only once Sauron grew tired of trying to goad him down from the walls and his joint defiance with Indis
  * He had not thought on Indis overmuch, even after reconciling with Ñolofinwë, and the mild confrontation with his father
  * He thinks, now, that this was a mistake. It is too late now, as it is for so many things. Their interactions have long been antagonistic and that is entirely on him. They are not family
  * But they have created a certain bond, on the walls of Barad Eithel. It would have been impossible not to
  * So Fëanor thinks that he can, perhaps, maybe, ask. If he is careful
  * “You would not deny having no love for my father, if I accused you of it?”
  * Maybe it is Beleriand and her recent trials that have made her thus. Maybe she was like this in Aman, but she had no occasion to show it. Indis is straight-backed and proper and entirely unapologetic in her answer
  * “I do not make a habit of lying,” she says. “I know what the stories say of me and my But there is a difference between letting things lie and deliberately obfuscating. You are Míriel’s son, and I will not do that with you. I knew her, and called her _‘friend’_ in Valinor.”
  * That’s not news to him, he knows these stories to, that Indis had loved his father and stayed silent for he had picked Míriel her friend rather than her, until she had her chance after his mother’s death
  * Fëanor has, in his kinder moments, thought this to be an exaggeration, played up for poetic drama. In his more frequent crueler moments, he has been certain of Indis’s betrayal, if she had ever been a true friend of his mother’s
  * It is nothing he has not accused her of before and the silent challenge is hanging here between them: _What will you do, Fëanáro Curufinwë?_
  * “How could you have married him if you do not love him?” is as neutral as he can make the question. It still has an edge to it
  * “Because in Aman there are rules of the Valar that we did not have at Cuiviénen,” Indis says. “It would not have mattered at Cuiviénen that I longed for children and Finwë wished for more children. I would not deny that I do not love him if you so accused me, because I do not love him in the way you _mean._ He is the husband of my dear friend and we have lived long together and have grown our own closeness, and we are parents together besides. But I do not love him as he and Míriel love, or as you love Nerdanel. I care deeply for him, and his loss pains me, and that is love. But it is not the kind of love that has ever left me _pining_ for him, only for children I could love and raise. I waited overlong at Cuiviénen to bear children, and then in Aman we found that the Valar feel that the creation of children must be a matter of two together in marriage. I am Ingwë’s sister, I am of the Vanyar, and on Taniquetil how could I be anything _but_ unassailable in my actions? I would not cause trouble for him, for I love him.”
  * “My father was convenient,” Fëanor says, and isn’t certain if that stings or not
  * “For both of us,” she replies sharply. “I did not lie to him either- he knew I wished more for children than I did for him. Míriel has always sat comfortably between us. Who else would not begrudge him his devotion to a lost wife but her close friend? Who else would not find a marriage without the kind of love that is meant in such an arrangement a trial but a bereaved widower? I have no desire for Míriel’s place in his heart and every wish for his happiness, and for hers. I cannot believe that she would wish Finwë to be alone because her exhaustion was not healed by Aman, nor that she would have wanted you to grow up without a mother.”
  * And that does sting, and Fëanor thinks Indis meant it to, because they both know full-well how he had responded to her early overtures at parenting him
  * He has not thought much on Indis, in his life, and disdained and derided the Vanyar on the basis of her existence
  * He wonders, now, what he’s missed, by so utterly refusing a Kindred of the Eldar; because Indis is straight-backed and unapologetic and _unashamed_
  * It is not Noldorin pride. It is not a thing of speeches or boasts or glory. It is poised, and calm, and rooted. It is a steady defiance, a mountain’s resistance and surety, a quiet determination to remain unmoved
  * He wouldn’t have recognized this, once. He has called it _‘weakness’_ and _‘yielding’_ and _‘complacency’_ and _‘cowardice’_ ; because Vanyarin pride does not roar and burn and so it was lost in the noise of his own fire
  * Arafinwë had had it, being tortured to death and not conceding the barest portion of his mind nor his soul to Sauron
  * (His youngest brother would have made such a better High King than he will)
  * Fëanor has a Noldorin pride and a Noldorin temper, and he stood and watched because he could not ride out and pay that cost, and he _hates_
  * He thinks that Indis must hate, too, and it is only that he does not recognize what that looks like in her
  * “I do not want to be in the habit of lying, either,” he tells her, because he is uncertain that he can claim he has not made a habit of it. He has held too many secrets for too long. “Morgoth and Sauron are going to pay for what they have cost us.”
  * It is a promise he has made before and it has brought him to ruin before but it is not something he has ever promised Indis, nor something he has claimed while in possession of an unclouded mind
  * And he has never said it as an apology before, either, as all the reconciliation he can offer
  * Perhaps that will make a difference, this time



* * *

  * They still haven’t decided their route into Beleriand by the time they turn north off the road
  * Their pace slows a bit. Theoretically, this gives them more time to decide; in practice Maedhros is so stressed by the options that he’s about ready to have their inner circle put it to a vote by the time they cross the smaller tributary river due east of Belegost and Nogrod
  * _If you’re this worried, we’ll just take Rerir,_ Fingon says from his side of the river as the army is crossing. Maedhros had been at the front and is supervising from the north bank; Fingon is overlooking the south. _We could even get a fortress out of it, if Caranthir hasn’t lost it yet._
  * _It was already lost by this time before,_ Maedhros tells him. _We’re defeating our point if we let ourselves become tied down by a siege immediately._
  * _We’re arriving with **two** armies, we can do a **little** besieging-_
  * The rest of Fingon’s words are lost as Maedhros catches movement in the corner of his eye and wheels his horse, the arrow screeching against his pauldron instead of embedding into the flesh of his shoulderblade
  * He marks the trajectory of the arrow and draws his sword as his mount surges forward. Thaladis catches up to him moments later on his right side, guarding his off-hand with body and shield
  * It’s a short, uphill rush to the small stand of brush that has provided the cover for their attackers. Horses from Valinor are more than capable of taking it easily, and behind them come quick-thinking elves and dwarves to back the two of them up
  * Maedhros’s horse jumps the brush barrier and catches himself before he can stumble. The brush had hidden a slight rise, and the ground was further away than expected
  * They’ve arrived in a group of squabbling humans
  * Maedhros knows the characteristics of the Houses of the Edain. The Bëorians are tall and dark of hair and eye, the Marachin are fair like Vanyar, the Haladin are short and dark-haired with eyes of brilliant jeweled tones
  * These Atani are broad, after the manner of the Haladin, and share their dark hair. But the eyes he can see are dark as well, and the words they shout are not the Bëorian and Marachin Taliska nor the Haladin Alatai, but Olsegin
  * They’ve run into the Easterlings
  * He’d not learned as much of the language of Bór as he had of Marach, the latest-come Atani had not dwelt long enough in the Marches for him to gain full fluency, but he has enough to be able to crash his warhorse down between the two apparent factions of warriors and roar: _“Enough!”_
  * Surprisingly, a good portion of them listen to him. The ones who don’t are quickly tackled by those who have, and within a minute or two the fighting has ended, just as their self-appointed backups push through the brush
  * _Maedhros?_
  * _We’re fine,_ he tells Fingon, and feels secondhand the experience of plunging through the river. His husband is coming. _I’ve just learned where Bór and Ulfang’s people were before they came through the Pass of Rerir._
  * Fingon’s worry presses against him
  * _I can handle this,_ he promises. _You finish directing the fording- unless you learned Olsegin while I was gone?_
  * _No,_ Fingon grudgingly admits. _But don’t get hurt!_
  * Maedhros sends back love as he levels his best disapproving glare at the humans who had continued attacking. In the distance, he hears Fingon calling others who had begun to rush after him in pursuit back to the river and the main mass of the army
  * “I will allow that we may seem alarming,” Maedhros tells the humans around him. “But is this your customary way of greeting guests?”
  * “Of course not, my Lord,” the leader of the troop hurries to agree. Maedhros can mark him by the decorations on his clothes. “We simply were not expecting you, my Lord, let us send word ahead and we will receive you properly!”
  * He bows before turning away to have a sharp, whispered conversation with the others closest to him
  * Likely he thinks he is speaking lowly enough for his words to be unrecognizable
  * But Maedhros is an elf, and he can hear him just fine
  * He affixes the smile he uses for people he does not like and turns to Thaladis, keeping one eye on the Atani
  * “No names,” he tells her, letting his voice carry just enough to reach the elves and dwarves who have followed them. He uses the barely-Sindarin Avarin of eastern Eriador and Rhovanion, which hopefully the humans cannot understand. “Titles only. Be wary.”
  * One of the Easterlings breaks away from the group and heads away at a steady run. Maedhros waits, betraying nothing, as the tackled humans are bound and forced ahead of them. The leader does a bit more bowing and scraping, buying time, and then invites them to follow him to their settlement
  * _Off to meet with whoever is in charge,_ Maedhros tells Fingon. _It might be an ambush. Follow along, but not close._
  * **_Maedhros-!_**
  * He ignores him and follows the Easterlings, Thaladis sticking to his side and the small accompaniment of elves and dwarves watchfully guarding their backs
  * The settlement isn’t far. It’s a reasonably-constructed village, ringed with tents, and clearly something semi-permanent. They’re led to an open area that seems to serve as a town square
  * There is a group waiting for them, led by a man who might be familiar. Maedhros is reserving judgement until someone names him specifically, and besides, he’s busy scrutinizing the gathered bound prisoners of their welcoming party. He’s rather more certain he recognizes people in there
  * Even if he’s wrong, there are children in that group
  * (He has been a monster. He does not want to be one again)
  * “My Lord!” the leader of the party hails him, and kneels. All others but the prisoners and the ones guarding them follow suit
  * This is extremely unorthodox
  * “We were not expecting you, my Lord, else we would be better prepared!” the leader continues, still kneeling. “But we have uncovered treachery!”
  * Maedhros takes his chances and dismounts
  * The Easterlings make no indication of getting up
  * “Treachery?” he asks, affecting a grave aspect
  * “Vortu and Ketetorge and all their clan, my Lord! It was their people who attacked you, and my own faithful who defended you, who would ride out to the west and be granted safety under your vassalage!”
  * _‘Vortu’_ and _‘Ketetorge’_ are names he knows. He looks back to the prisoners and can pick them out, easily – the man who he knows best as Bór is kneeling with a hatchet to the back of his neck, the decorated fur hat that marks his station knocked into the dirt as a sign of disrespect. The wife who Maedhros had provided land for a burial mound for is younger than he ever knew her as well, and has her arms around a toddler. She might be pregnant, though the bulk of her long embroidered jacket could be fooling him
  * They haven’t touched the long knife that marks her as a married woman, he notes. It’s meant for the defense of her clan, her family, and her person, and as such it carries a heavy taboo against any man handling it. It seems that has held even while she is being treated as a prisoner
  * Ketetorge had died, in his past, carrying out a position in his personal guard that is much the same position as Thaladis has appointed herself to. Maedhros likes Bór’s wife. They’d been friends
  * This also clears up the dynamics of the situation and identifies the man who’s been addressing him quite nicely
  * “You have made my work much easier, Holvan,” Maedhros says to the man who will not live to be named _‘Ulfang’_ , and drives Naxaskatar through his spine



* * *

  * There is no one left
  * Strange, how that makes things easier
  * Fëanor cannot remember ever having an anger like this before – it is not roaring, it is not wild. It is steady-burning and deep and quietly fierce, the danger of metal fresh-taken from the forge. It sits in the pits of his lungs and heats his heart and he _hates_
  * He hates that Nelyafinwë suffers
  * He hates that Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar and Kanafinwë will know too-well of Angband
  * He hates that his father’s fëa is bound where he would not stay
  * He hates that Ñolofinwë died to save him
  * He hates that not saving Arafinwë was the right thing to do
  * He hates that they do not know what has become of Morifinwë
  * Fëanor _hates_ and it feels like suffocating in mine-fumes, like drowning on dry land; as though he is melting from the inside out and he will sludge into a misshapen lump of weak iron if he cools without hammering, without tempering
  * And there is no one left, no one to wait for and no one to hold back for, no one who will be coming to save him from himself; and he would rather be Fëanor the Mad than Fëanor the Useless
  * “Come back,” Nerdanel whispers against his lips as he stretches up to kiss her farewell
  * _How could I leave you?_ he tells her as they press close, body and soul; but he knows that if he dies leading this campaign he will only regret that they are parted, not that he has achieved the Halls
  * Nerdanel stands over the west-gate of Barad Eithel, hugging herself against the wind and the parting, as he rides out
  * They travel in the shadow of the mountains, sticking to the foothills and letting the heavy fogs hide them. It is a grey and dark travel, gloamy and muffling
  * It is luck or providence that allows them to reach Lake Mithrim without being discovered; or else that Hithlum has been considered long-taken by the forces of the Enemy and so there is a lesser presence here, enough to hold the back end of the siege but little else
  * They camp along the southern shore as they travel, with the intent to fall upon the orcs holding the lands of Mithrim from the unexpected northwest, and Fëanor remembers Aegnor dying in these quiet grey waters
  * He wades out into the lake, one evening, pants rolled up above the knees, the water a dark mirror for the cloudy sky above. It breaks with the ripples of his passing and he watches the fleeting patches of stars shiver
  * _Please,_ Fëanor thinks. It might be a prayer, but to whom, he has no idea
  * They fall upon the forces holding Mithrim as a hammer, the Mountains of Shadow their anvil, and they are a smaller force than they could have been but they have been withstanding siege for months and are battle-tested and hardened by the impotent endurance
  * Fëanor skewers his first orc and familiar anger flares, a brief burst of fire that comforts him
  * The battles that retake Mithrim are marked by this: the symphonic pulse of the blaze rekindling within himself and the steady beat of _thrust pull blood-splash_
  * They would rest briefly in Barad Eithel but that would give the Enemy an opening; they ignore the pass towards home and press onwards into Hithlum
  * Hithlum is harder. It is open country, flat, with decimated farm fields that shade into sparse, low, bushy copses of evergreens and then tundra beyond. They are not enough to hold a line here; they must hope that Morgoth does not bother to send more orcs around the mountains down past the end of the Helcaraxë
  * Still, they make a sweep of the lands, north along the mountains and west along the bottom of the scrub-lands, then turning south against the Echoing Mountains and east again, back and forth across the plains, a too-small army plowing fields of enemies
  * They turn a final time and, with Lake Mithrim at their left hands, head towards the border with Dor-Lómin
  * Where Mithrim meets Hithlum meets the Land of Echoes, Fëanor nearly makes a grave mistake, charging forward into a mass of orcs and stabbing at a leather-clad back
  * His target skips aside and turns and he is faced with Noldor-grey eyes and dun hair escaping from under a half-faced helmet and a shield emblazoned with the Flower of Laurelin and Fëanor pulls back from Anor son of Aegnor, Lord of Dor-Lómin, and quietly does not think about his near-miss until the battle is over
  * Fëanor is composing an apology – for nearly skewering him, for not saving his father, for not saving his grandfather, for not saving either of his uncles – when Anor approaches him, after, helmet held under one arm and his younger brother Anlach trailing behind him and their middle sister Anneth pestering them both about going to the healers
  * Anor drops to one knee before him, his siblings following suit a moment later, and Fëanor remembers that he is High King
  * “Your Majesty,” the Lord of Dor-Lómin acknowledges him gravely, and Fëanor _also_ remembers that: _wait, Arafinwë took them from here months ago, how-_ “I am so sorry.”
  * “For what?” he asks, taken aback; and Anor raises his head
  * The torchlight of the camp reflects in his eyes and Fëanor has a terrible foreboding



* * *

  * The east has held out as long as it can
  * Tyelkormo wishes there were anyone he could call upon to hold Himring and watch Elór in his absence who was family; he wishes that he had sent Elór away to Mahtan while the way was still safe
  * _Selfish,_ he derides himself as his sister clings to him and begs and screams and cries _Tyelko don’t go-!_ as he remembers doing, a lifetime ago in Tirion, when their mother had gone to fetch their father back in the wake of Nelyafinwë’s death
  * His sister, too, will know the terror of fearing everyone who is not immediately present is dead
  * (He still has not told her their parents are dead. Surely she knows by now- but if she doesn’t, he cannot bear to be the person to tell her)
  * “I’ll see you again,” he promises, because he cannot tell her that he will come back. “I love you so much, Hánormelda. You are loved so much-”
  * _“Then don’t **leave me!** ” _his baby sister shrieks and Tyelkormo winces and the guilt burrows deeper
  * _Failure,_ his mind hisses at him as Elór’s designated guard finally has to wrestle her off him so that the host can ride out to join with the Cavalry. They have had news, a scout on a fast and exhausted horse, reporting the army they have been fearing since Caranthir returned
  * Morgoth and Sauron have turned their focus on the east at long last. The west is fallen. There is no one else and no help is coming
  * (Amrod, if he is still on schedule, will by now have sailed up the coast to join with Círdan for the great counter-attack in Drengist and Lammoth. It will be too late to save them here, but perhaps it will recall some of the orcs and other things out of Nedhelion, when the time comes
  * Perhaps something of the east will be saved)
  * _Coward,_ Tyelkormo further berates himself as they descend from Himring. _What King fears so to tell his own sister the truth? To hide? To hope for what you know will not come and cower behind walls? You did not ride out with Atar and Ammë and you dare still call yourself their son when they are **dead-**_
  * He is not doing that, now. He is riding to his death and he will save what he can and he will have done _this much,_ it will not be enough for pride but perhaps it will be enough to forestall shame and disapproval, when he must account to his parents in the Halls
  * Tyelkormo cannot fail at this
  * The battle is half-formed by the time they arrive at the Cavalry’s last line. Amras is arranging formations and tactics from a table strewn with maps under a half-walled pavilion; Aredhel is lying on a cot in the back behind a hasty curtain, resting a deep slash across the arm before the fighting truly begins
  * He shares a nod with his brother before ducking in to see her
  * “Írisse?” he asks quietly when she doesn’t stir, and she lifts the folded cloth from over her eyes to look at him
  * “Hey,” she answers back, quiet as well, with a tired smile, and reaches out with her undamaged arm. He takes her hand and squeezes. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to make it.”
  * “Wouldn’t miss it,” he promises
  * “You’re High King, Tyelko,” she says. “There’s such a thing as acceptable losses.”
  * _And you’re not it,_ he’d tell her, but he’s here, against her advice. She knows
  * The usual interminable waiting before a fight is eaten up by integrating the back-up he’s brought along in with Amras’s infantry and the cavalry. Some of the people Tyelkormo has brought are actually returning wounded, now healed, and that requires a bit of shuffling
  * By noon, they are well-committed
  * Tyelkormo throws himself into the thickest parts of the fighting, his battle-guard following and Aredhel and Huan flanking him, as though he had never left, as though he is only Prince Tyelkormo still, a Lord of the Marches and not High King
  * It is a bloodbath but they’d known it would be. This is about attrition, not about victory. The line is likely to break today and it is about the desperation of fighting for home and survival
  * But that desperation is nothing compared to what seizes him when he turns and finds himself alone on the field. His guard is lost; Aredhel and Huan are gone
  * Terror and rage grip him; an animalistic fury that is too primal for such a mere word as _‘desperation’_ , without the sister of his heart and his closest companion and his family all dead _what does he have-_
  * The few remnants of his battle-guard catch up, after an interminable stretch of death that he only remembers in flashes of red and black and steel and his own howling, wordless screaming. He is drenched in blood, his mouth full of it and his armor coated down the front
  * He can see himself reflected in the eyes of the guards who tell him they do not know what has happened to Aredhel and Huan, that they are gone, that there are werewolves and orcs and wargs on the field but they have marked Amras’s position, _‘please Your Majesty-’_
  * Words are meaningless noise and he is an iron and copper nightmare of blood and gore and savagery but the call of family pulls him along, to an island of order and rational thought he can just cling to in the midst of the unchained beast of his fëa
  * They join with the soldiers around Amras and Tyelkormo kills and kills and kills and _hopes_ that maybe with a secure position Aredhel and Huan will rally-
  * A flicker of fur out of the corner of his eye, he turns-
  * A werewolf, massive, bigger than any he has ever seen and its jaws are caked in blood and it snarls and him and Tyelkormo snarls back-
  * They’re wrestling, he’s been knocked to the ground and he’s holding the monster’s jaws open by the teeth above him and this is how he dies-
  * Blood pours hot and dark down onto him and the werewolf jumps sideways with a howl of pain, and Amras drags him to his feet
  * “Stop and _think!_ ” his brother snaps, shaking him. “You _can’t die here,_ Tyelko, you’re Hi-”
  * Between one moment and the next his brother’s eyes widen and the word turns into a scream and there is fire, fire everywhere; heat and flames and over it the roar of battle and under it the sound of the sea
  * Salt air mixes with blood stench; Faladhrim are yelling; a Balrog is fire and smoke against the hazed outline of the cliffs of Drengist
  * His skin is searing his eyes are boiling the world has gone white and dark and he cannot brea-
  * A weight pulls down against him and Tyelkormo blinks and Amras is falling, an arrow piercing through his eye and out the back of his skull, snuffing the violent sharing of another death, a continent away
  * Ambarussa’s death-grip slips off Tyelkormo’s viscera-slicked armor and Tyelkormo drops with him, trying to catch him before he can hit the ground
  * He misses and in the shocked, staggering stillness of this corner of the battlefield that his brother’s projected ósanwë ground to a halt, the _thump_ of Amras’s corpse reverberates through the empty blankness of his skull and the ringing in his ears screams _Nelyo-Curvo-Tyelpë-Grandfather-Atar-Ammë-Laurë-Írissë-Huan-Amrod-Amras-!_
  * Tyelkormo does not see the eastern frontier finally break as the Enemy’s forces overrun their shattered position
  * He does not see the losses the Cavalry take; he does not see the way Amras’s lieutenant desperately rallies a retreat
  * Tyelkormo sees nothing but _targets,_ lungs and hearts and guts and red red _red_ that he can rend and tear and slaughter, he has always been some kind of broken some kind of Marred he has been little an elf should be, cold to the greatest deepest longings of children and spouse- why, when he has lost everything else, should he cling still to his delusions of being anything better than the monster he has secretly known he is?
  * He attacks his own guard when they try to drag him from the field, and he is deaf to their screaming



* * *

  * There’s an intense skirmish in full swing by the time Fingon charges into the Easterling settlement, worried and angry and knowing that fuels his glow. He doesn’t try to hide it - its shining effectively distracts a number of humans, and Maedhros, Thaladis, and the small group accompanying them take advantage
  * The fighting doesn’t last much longer, after that
  * “Well!” Durin says, looking around the strewn bodies and surrendering humans. Most of them are surrendering to their fellows. Maedhros seems to think this is fine, so Fingon’s staying out of it. Civil wars give him a headache. “This seems to have gone poorly.”
  * “Oh no, Your Majesty,” Maedhros says, coming over to join them. He’s not on his horse any longer, and Fingon _knows_ he’s not a cavalryman but horses give you an advantage so _why_ had he dismounted? “We have caught and solved a problem before it had the chance to sneak up behind us.”
  * After a little bit of clean up and a short time for everyone to regroup, they’re invited to an actual, proper welcoming feast. Maedhros introduces them all properly – he and Fingon as the Chieftains of the Forn-ar-Rhûn, Durin and Móstgnira as King and Queen of Khazad-dûm, and Vortu and Ketetorge as Lord and Lady of the Olseg
  * He has to serve as translator as well, since Maedhros is the only one with a shared language in their group, so Fingon asks his question mind-to-mind
  * _Vortu and Ketetorge?_
  * _Bór and his wife, who refused a Sindarin name,_ Maedhros replies, not breaking his stride in the midst of translating between Vortu and Móstgnira. _I’ve killed Ulfang. He’d already sworn to Sauron, and seems to have thought that I was some kind of emissary._
  * That’s odd. Fingon knows he glows noticeably in low light if he doesn’t bother to suppress it, and can with a bit of effort intensify the effect, but as far as he’s been able to tell Maedhros doesn’t have any obvious darkness about him
  * _Bór’s people thought so too,_ his husband adds. _I don’t know why either, but I intend to find out._
  * The light is fading by the time the feast is ready. Fingon continues to let Maedhros take charge of the proceedings and the talk, listening in through their marriage bond as he eats
  * He narrowly avoids swallowing his mead the wrong way when Ketetorge is finally comfortable enough with them to baldly state that they’d taken Maedhros for Sauron himself
  * _But **how?**_ Fingon asks. _They can’t see your fëa, they don’t know!_
  * **_I’d_** _like to know as well,_ Maedhros replies. Fingon can feel the unease he’s trying to hide, that he might be exuding something foul without being aware of it
  * It’s Móstgnira who provides the answer, after Maedhros translates what Ketetorge said
  * “We are Khazad, Rathkumahal,” she says. “What fear have we of the deep dark, or the fire? These are things of the Lord Shaper, and you were sent by him.”
  * So that’s how they find out that the Forn-ar-Rhûn are simply used to how Maedhros feels and didn’t register anything different, and the dwarves are not alarmed in the least and consider it a mark of Aulë’s favor, but he makes the humans nervous
  * Rúmil, who is sitting in proximity because of Saratië’s status, clears his throat apologetically as this is being worked out
  * “I was going to stay silent out of respect, Your Highness,” he says. “But you do have a somewhat… _unsettling_ air about you. It did not seem polite to remark upon, given that is an, ah, effect of your unexpected circumstances…?”
  * Fingon is suddenly quite forcefully reminded that, one, Rúmil is not an idiot; two, they’ve long since stopped pretending in his vicinity; and three, he’s married to Saratië who _knows_ and loves him very much
  * “One does not remark on the private affairs of kings, Your Majesty,” Rúmil says serenely when Fingon peers suspiciously at him. “Likely the others in Aman thought as I did, that it was an unfortunate side-effect of the attentions of the Dark Rider.”
  * Rúmil _definitely_ knows. At least they hadn’t had to have that conversation with him
  * The feast ends late, but he and Maedhros stay up a little longer in their gifted quarters. They’d been Ulfang’s as of that morning, but the sudden change of ownership isn’t what keeps them from sleep
  * His husband has to sit and think on it for a while, and Fingon has to show him how it feels to flare his own brightness, but after a few attempts Maedhros takes a breath and straightens and Fingon can _feel_ the press of a smoldering heavy Darkness that does indeed put him mind of Angband – and even more so when he looks at Maedhros’s face and sees the King of Kinslayers there, a man who is awash in blood and knows what it is to be heartless and hard and cold and cruel, in unholy union with the worst of the fey Lord of Himring, a man not far removed from his own torments and savagely eager to revisit his own pain upon the Enemy
  * “Come back,” Fingon begs, grabbing at his husband. “Maitimo _please-_ ”
  * He hasn’t seen Maedhros make such an instant, complete shutdown since his days of recovery at Mithrim
  * It _hurts,_ this time, like someone has cut out a piece of him, has torn away part of his soul-
  * His husband surges back into Fingon’s awareness and cling to each other in the shuddering mental aftermath of the way Maedhros had inadvertently tried to wrench apart their marriage bond to be alone in his own head
  * “Never again,” Fingon tells him. “Don’t do that _ever again-_ ”
  * He can feel Maedhros’s regret, but also his guilt and his determination
  * **_No,_** he insists. _I know you. I know your fëa. I won’t have you hidden from me, mírimanya. Not like that. We’re a part of each other._
  * “I can-”
  * “I don’t _care,_ ” Fingon cuts him off. “I already knew you’ve been mistaken for Sauron before, it’s not news to me, and even if it was, I _wouldn’t care._ I _know you._ ”
  * “I scared you,” his husband says. “I saw your face, Kánya. I heard the way you begged. If I can still- no wonder we were so readily aided in leaving Aman.”
  * Oh he knows where _this_ is going
  * Fingon pulls back, blinking away tears, and tries to glare at Maedhros
  * “We wanted to leave,” he reminds him. “They weren’t trying to get rid of us. Manwë wanted us to stay.”
  * “You, maybe,” Maedhros says, and it sounds like the bad days in the Halls. He’s slumped over, and won’t meet Fingon’s eyes. He can feel the defeat and resignation curling darkly around his husband’s thoughts. “But I- I am monstrous in a way I cannot hide, Kánya. I didn’t even I cannot be allowed to darken-”
  * “Oh, _bull **shit,**_ ” Fingon vents, patience snapping. “What, Lord Námo didn’t think you well enough and _good_ enough to leave? The Doomsman could not rightly judge you? Lord Aulë was wrong to favor you? To present you with gifts and tools to wield against the Enemy and welcome you warmly back to life? Lord Oromë could behold you and not see evil when it stood before him?”
  * Doubt is a look on Maedhros Fingon is displeased he knows so well
  * “They have been wrong before.”
  * “About people who were _lying_ about wanting to be better,” Fingon says. “Never about the better natures of those who regret their wrongs. Never the repentant. We were _helped_ , Maedhros. The Valar weren’t trying to get rid of you, or us.”
  * “Were we? Or was it expedience, to be rid of kinslayers and troublemakers?”
  * “What, were you planning on causing trouble?” Fingon asks sharply. “On reprising Alqualondë, if we could not negotiate for boats?”
  * “No,” Maedhros says. “But I did not intend it the first time, either! Or to condemn myself further, after I foreswore more death after Doriath! Or to abscond with Elrond and Elros! _But I did._ ”
  * “And if because you have failed before and failed again when you tried to be better, then you will forever fail, why, then what a naïve idiot you must think me!” Fingon exclaims hotly. “A lovestruck fool! A brainless twit!”
  * “Kánya-”
  * “Did you _trick_ me into marrying you? Into staying with you? Saving you? For how else, then, could I make such a _monumentally stupid_ decision as to love you! Not the Valiant but the Moronic, I should have been named!”
  * _“Findekáno.”_
  * _“Nelyafinwë,”_ Fingon parrots back in the same tone of voice. “Stop being defeatist and letting your self-loathing win. You can better than you were, and you are not evil, and we have _not_ been abandoned.”
  * As if to prove his point, in the morning, after breakfast, Thorondir lands outside their camp




	16. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit! I wasn't making _any_ progress writing and these last months have been a time, but we're nearing the end of the year so here, have an update. 
> 
> Also thanks to everyone who's still been commenting, and asking how I'm doing! I've seen your things in my inbox though I haven't replied to anything yet, I'll be getting around to those.

  * With their backs now mostly free of enemies, Nerdanel has been sending out riding groups to scavenge and search for defensible positions. If they can send some of the refugee population in Barad Eithel back out to nearby settlements, repaired and fortified, they will ease more pressure off themselves – even if it is only temporary, and more orcs come down from the north around the mountains
  * But they will be watching for that, now, as they had not before. They will have warning, if everyone must retreat again to fortress walls
  * Nerdanel is drafting fortification plans when one of her survey groups returns with unexpected guests
  * Indis gets there first, and she hangs back, allowing the former High Queen to embrace her great-grandchildren
  * Anlach Aegnorion bows to her when she does finally approach
  * “Your Majesty,” he says. “Your husband the High King sends his regards.”
  * That eases her heart a little. She would know if Fëanor was dead, but simply hurt? That might not transfer across the marriage bond, at this distance
  * “It is good to see you well,” Nerdanel replies. It is – she doesn’t know her peredhel relatives of Arafinwë’s line in any personal way, but they’ve lost so much family, this war. “And your brother?”
  * He’s come in under Anor’s golden Flower of Laurelin, and she can see their sister Anneth speaking with someone in the household staff, but Aegnor and Andreth’s eldest is not here
  * “He stayed with the armies, Your Majesty. We bring news of the war.”
  * Which is like as not to be sorrowful as much as heartening
  * “Settle your people,” Nerdanel tells him. “Queen Indis and I will see you and your sister for lunch.”
  * “We had news that Arafinwë had taken you and your mother from Dor-Lómin,” is the opening of the conversation, when they reconvene over food
  * “He did, Great-Grandmother,” Anneth says. “To Nevrast, and then we took Finduilas and Rodnor to King Círdan and Queen Lalwen. Orodreth and Amrúwen-”
  * “We heard,” Indis says gently, when she doesn’t continue. “But Rodnor is safe? He’s so young. And Finduilas’s husband?”
  * “Gwindor’s leading on Finduilas’s behalf, on the field. He was all right when we left. Finduilas has been taking care of her brother. Queen Lalwen and King Círdan were helping, and us, but then we went on campaign.”
  * “King Círdan coordinated it with Prince Amrod,” Anlach tells them. “A naval assault on Drengist, to land forces behind the orcs holding Nevrast, and crush them between. Us three and Gwindor went with the King and the Prince and the fleet- Queen Lalwen is directing the push from the south with King Finrod.”
  * There is fearful hope on Indis’s face so Nerdanel speaks instead
  * “We had thought him dead,” she says. “Granted, the news came to us from Sauron.”
  * “Gorthaur did ambush him,” Anlach says. “And left him to die a plaything of a troop of orcs. But Barahir, the son of our cousin Bregor, has been leading a roving band of Bëorings against the Enemy in Talath Dirnen, and saved him.”
  * And now that fearful hope is hers, because-
  * “Sauron also said-”
  * The words die at Anlach’s expression
  * “King Finrod told us Prince Makalaurë was captured,” he says. “But Sauron had sent him on ahead, while he stayed to torment his other captives. He had Prince Arafinwë, as well.”
  * “Arafinwë is dead,” Nerdanel manages to say, though her throat is tight with grief. Sauron lies, they know, but if Finrod has corroborated it- Makalaurë is in Angband
  * “And we have… other poor news,” Anneth says reluctantly. “Your Majesty. We successfully took Drengist, and are moving on Nevrast and Dor-Lómin, but- Prince Amrod died, in the initial assault. I am sorry.”
  * She does not have to ask how. She has known since his birth how her son would die
  * Nerdanel excuses herself and does not weep until she is locked away in her rooms



* * *

  * It is one of her better days, but the phantom pain is with her, still
  * Her husband hurts all the time now, whether he is being actively tortured or not. His mind has been forced open so long that Anairë is unsure if he even could close off the marriage bond of his own will
  * So she feels the echo of his torment in Angband, but she claws herself out of bed and into armor and up to the battlements regardless
  * The moon is half-full, but the night is brighter with the campfires of their besieging army. In the distance, but still too close, it glitters on Glaurung’s scales
  * Dragons are made city-killers, but Pindost’s walls are the finest outside Himring, and Nerdanel and Fëanor have both gone over every part of the defense here. The fortress of Dorthonion will _hold,_ however long they must. Anairë and Hador will not let it be otherwise
  * “Lady Anairë,” he greets her, as they pass on their ways to their respective shifts. Hador takes the sunlit hours and Anairë sleeps fitfully through the day, trying to avoid both the pain Arien’s glow has begun to cause her eyes and Fingolfin’s suffering in Morgoth’s stronghold. Angband does not keep to a schedule, but Sauron has had better uses for his nights for some time now
  * “Lord Hador,” she greets him back. He’s off to bed. In the morning, they will pass this way again, in the other direction
  * Anairë reaches the top of the walls and begins her slow, limping circuit. The guards salute her, though they no longer meet her eyes
  * She is used to this; she ignores it
  * A full circuit tires her, and she makes her customary stop another quintile in, resting in the shadows of a tower
  * _We are alone,_ her youngest’s fëa tells her. The chains of the necromancy binding him disappear into the darkness; his eyes are pits of Shadow
  * Argon’s remains hang in front of Pindost’s gate, lashed to a pole. Whenever pieces fall off, some orc gathers them up and binds them back in place
  * _The east has fallen,_ Argon continues. _They cannot help. Ammë, Aredhel-_
  * “You lie,” Anairë interrupts. She has long grown desensitized to this specter of her son. His words are Sauron’s, and Sauron holds him. This is not her Arakáno in any meaningful way. “If she were dead, you would have dragged her corpse here to show it off or you would have bound her soul and she would be standing here; if she were alive and captured you would bring her before the walls. If all you have are words to try to torment me, then you have nothing.”
  * _Turukáno will not come,_ he continues as she pushes on. _He has abandoned us._
  * “And why should I have ever expected his help?”
  * _Idril is not here. She was not in the east._
  * “You’re fishing, Sauron,” Anairë says. “If she returned to Gondolin, then that’s what she’s done. I could no more tell you where it is than I could describe the Shadowed Sea.”
  * _You know something._
  * “I know nothing.”
  * And the pain hits, because this is the one thing, the worst thing
  * Sauron has her husband, so if he does not like her answers, Fingolfin is the one who pays for them
  * But he would have been hurt regardless, for that is the way of Sauron and Morgoth. It is their fault, and not hers, and Anairë cannot do much but she _can_ refuse to feel falsely responsible and do the work of the Enemy for them
  * “I know nothing,” she spits again, and begins yet another night of grueling consciousness and defiance



* * *

  * Fingon arranges for a trough of water to be filled and cow to be butchered and brought for Thorondir, who is far from his home and has to have been flying for some time to reach them
  * “It’s so big,” Aewenil whispers in terror
  * “He’s the King of Eagles,” Fingon tells him, trying to arrange his crown. “And a vassal of Lord Manwë.”
  * “Birds are _not_ supposed to be that big,” his friend hisses, and straightens the crown for him. “I’m glad I’m not the only one here who can speak to birds!”
  * The Eagles of Manwë can speak the tongues of Elves and Men, but most of their host is skittish enough around such a giant predator, so Fingon decides to leave Aewenil in harmless ignorance and goes to join Maedhros
  * Durin and Móstgnira seem quietly nervous about Thorondir, who outsizes them more than any of the others, but Vortu and Ketetorge have to be actively persuaded to come closer. It’s a job and a half, but after Thorondir finishes eating, the humans are much more willing to approach
  * “Your hospitality is appreciated,” the Eagle says when they approach. “Hail; King Durin the Deathless and Queen Móstgnira whom Mahal favors! Hail; King Nelyafinwë Óravantaimo and King Findekáno Astaldo! Hail; Lord and Lady of Men!”
  * He accompanies each greeting with a respectful bob of his massive head. They bow back, only he and Maedhros without any fear or caution, and Fingon decides he should take charge of this occasion
  * “Hail; Sorontar King of Manwë’s Eagles; and welcome to the home of Lord Vortu and Lady Ketetorge of the Olseg,” he says, Maedhros translating quickly just behind him. “Bring you news from Valinor? Or from closer lands?”
  * Thorondir settles down against the ground, his massive feet disappearing under feathers the length of a tall man’s arm
  * “I bring what news I may of Beleriand and the tidings of the war,” he answers. “We have heard nothing from the King of Arda save this: that we the Eagles might look east beyond the Blue Mountains, and find elves and dwarves under a standard of our own image, and aid them if we cared to.”
  * “Aid, Your Majesty?”
  * “Aid,” Thorondir affirms. “But news, first! Barad Eithel in the Mountains of Shadow stands, as does Pindost in Dorthonion, but both are under bitter siege. The western fortress less so in latter days, as the Enemy turns his attention eastwards, but at the gates of Pindost sits a foul made-beast whom we have heard on the wind is called _‘Glaurung’_.”
  * It’s good that Thorondir specified where Pindost is- Fingon’s never heard of it before
  * “Gondolin remains hidden and safe, but the eastern and western frontiers have fallen and the forces of Morgoth are abroad, unchecked, in the upper lands of the Narog and the Gelion.”
  * Maedhros stumbles here, taken by surprise. Fingon feels dread rising in them both
  * “Himring stands, and Rerir, though they will soon be besieged as well. There is fighting about Drengist and Dor-Lómin and Nevrast – many standards fly, and every length of land is hard-won by those who are retaking the northwest.”
  * Maedhros’s dread is for his family in the familiar east, but Fingon’s is less worn, unexpected. The mountain wall that protected Mithrim and Hithlum had not been broken in his time – breached, during the Dagorath, yes, briefly. But they had never _lost_ any of the lands there
  * “The Falas and the lands of the south remain untouched, as does Doriath,” Thorondir concludes. “This is what we know, from the heights of the skies.”
  * “What of their lords?” Fingon asks. “Have the winds carried news of who lives and who has died?”
  * “I know of the safety of those of Gondolin and those of Doriath only,” Thorondir answers. “A body hangs outside Pindost, but I know not who it belongs to.”
  * Anyone could be alive. Anyone could be dead. He’s not sure if certainty would make him feel better, or worse
  * Maedhros jumps in with his own questions, more tactical – Have any other dragons been seen? How many Balrogs, and where? – as Fingon worries. He knows from what little he’d overheard from the Noldor in the Halls and what they’d said of Beleriand during their apologies that his parents hold Dorthonion, and that Argon was sitting in the Pass of Sirion, and that Aredhel leads the Gap with Celegorm
  * Are they too late, for his brother and sister? Or do they live still, and fight on? Can his parents continue to hold a siege until they can arrive with help?
  * “What aid?” he asks, when Maedhros’s questions have been answered and he can feel his husband thinking furiously on them
  * “The carrying of messages and news,” Thorondir tells him. “And – if the destination is not too dire, and there is a willing volunteer amongst my people – transportation for a group of no more than three.”
  * That’s fair, and very useful. Fingon thanks him on the behalf of everyone present and suggests a recess for planning purposes
  * Vortu in particular is more than happy to agree, and their group of leaders retires to his and Ketetorge’s dwelling
  * “If we can send messages ahead we can coordinate,” Fingon says. “Or at least boost morale, if no one can break through to meet us. We might not know who is _alive,_ exactly, but now we know where the worst of the fighting is and who needs the most help.”
  * “I know the army can’t go through this way, and the cities of the Blue Mountains are far from wherever we will enter Beleriand,” Durin says. “But if we are sending messages ahead then I can send word to the Kings of Belegost and Nogrod. They may not heed me, but I have some authority to persuade them to march and join us in battle.”
  * Given that Maedhros had partnered effectively with Azaghâl in their first Bragollach, this sounds very reasonable to Fingon
  * He turns to second the suggestion to his husband and finds Maedhros’s expression strained and unhappy as he looks pensively at the wall
  * _Nelyo?_
  * “They need us,” Maedhros replies aloud, voice heavy. “Sooner rather than later. But Rerir is to be besieged, and it will be easy to hold a mountain pass against us. Terrain and time favors them- they will have entrenched by the time we reach their position.”
  * “But will they reckon with facing dwarves?” Durin wonders. “Now, I’ve not seen this pass, but wherever there is stone-”
  * They continue in this vein for some time, Fingon and Móstgnira occasionally pitching in with counters or suggestions
  * But what it always comes down to is that mountain passes are hard terrain, and hazardous, and trying to press a situational advantage is likely to cut both ways
  * They’ve been busy enough hashing out Rerir that Fingon is mildly startled when Vortu finally speaks up
  * “We know where Sauron will be.”
  * That rather halts the conversation. Fingon only understands that much because he can listen through Maedhros’s thoughts; but _‘Sauron’_ is familiar now to the King and Queen of Khazad-dûm
  * “Holvan spoke of it,” Vortu continues, when everyone looks at him. “Sauron has been courting us for months, promising better lands and greater power for our people if we bowed to his lordship. But enough of us remember that it is _he_ who commands the things that raid us out of the north and made us wish for safer homes in the first place. When Holvan swore to him, Sauron told him to bring the Olseg around the head of the mountains to meet him on the northern plains.”
  * Fingon can hear Maedhros’s thoughts running – that Sauron will be in Lothlann, that he is _expecting_ reinforcements, that Naxaskatar is made to strike against the Dark Maia specifically, that he has a task and a vengeance to wreak, that no one but those possessed of divine power have ever faced him head-on and won but that using Sauron’s own tactics of trickery and deception and exploiting his hubris and vanity has proven its viability at least twice before-
  * But going around will cost time, and it is time that Beleriand may not be able to afford
  * But a successful attack on Sauron could shift the course of the war dramatically
  * _We were warned,_ Fingon thinks regretfully, and Maedhros agrees, bitterness-tinged frustration turning his heart hard and grim
  * If they had negotiated boats from the Teleri, they would be in the war by now
  * “If we could trade for clothing, and weapons, so that we can do our best to appear as expected-” Maedhros begins saying
  * “Why?” Vortu asks. “We are coming with you. To the Dark Lord’s mind we have already betrayed him by refusing – if you fight him and lose, then he will come for us next. If you win and we have not helped, then what kind of gratitude have we shown?”



* * *

  * His people are scared of him
  * (They’re right to be, he is a monster)
  * Aredhel is gone, and Huan as well, otherwise they would have been found already; they would have _come back_
  * (He knew it was going to happen, someday, that they would leave and he would have _no one_ and he _will_ have no one, his family is dead and dying and he has shown himself to be the savage loveless thing that he has always been and no one will have him ever again)
  * They are trying to hold a line from Nan Elmoth to the base of the Highlands, if Caranthir can hold Aglon and the Marachin can hold Estolad then together they can keep Himlad free-
  * (What does it _matter-_ )
  * The people he commands look at him like a monster, treat him like an easily-provoked wild animal
  * (His guard stays out of arm’s reach of him, now. He had killed three of them when they’d dragged him from the battlefield, and it had been a close thing for many others. There are elves resting under the care of healers who will never be able to fight again, because of him)
  * If all he can be is a monster then he will _be_ a monster, he will chase down death and revel in slaughter, strew about guts and tear out throats, drown himself in blood thick and hot until Námo has to _drag_ his fëa out of it-
  * (He does not think, when he kills. It is only the pounding of his heart and the bellows of his lungs and the high of blood madness that buries every bit of consciousness and conscientiousness
  * This is not the thrill of riding with Örome. That was measured, reasoned, planned. You hunt for food, for the resources of bodies, for pelts and skin and bone and horn. It is not a thing of pleasure or sport, though there is competition in it, and the pride of skill and success
  * This is something dark and burning and raving, some kind of savage manic euphoria that he cannot believe his Lord would ever condone
  * He left Örome’s Hunt to come to Beleriand. He has abandoned his Lord’s ways; it is only just that he has been abandoned in turn to the howling death-craving dark)
  * “Your Majesty,” someone says behind him. Tyelkormo turns and it is a messenger from Himring, staying nervously out of lunging distance. She looks ready to bolt. “Y-your sister-”
  * (When next they encounter forces of the Enemy he roars back at them wordlessly and charges into them, slashing, stabbing, biting, _tearing-_
  * Flesh hangs in ragged scraps between his teeth and he bares them in a bloody brutal snarl and he is nothing but _savagery_
  * Werewolves are lesser Maiar in canine form, but some things are carried in the body. They turn tail and run from the feral hateful devouring _thing_ wearing a the hröa of an elf)



* * *

  * “Your Highness-!”
  * Elór thinks it is her brother, for a moment, shaking her awake to greet her; but it is not, it is one of her new guards that Tyelko had insisted on, a formerly-wounded member of the Cavalry who’d staggered westwards for healing
  * “Your Highness,” the cavalrywoman says again, slightly quieter now that Elór is awake and looking at her. “Your brother has returned, and your parents-!”
  * Elór throws herself out of bed and yanks on her robe and slippers. Tyelko’s been gone for so long and Ammë and Atar for even _longer-_
  * “Quietly now,” her guard says. “We don’t want to wake anyone who’s still sleeping.”
  * “Where are they?” Elór demands, trying to light a candle. Her guard picks it up instead, and takes the flint and steel from her
  * “At the healers’, Your Highness-”
  * Elór’s heart beats once, hard, off-rhythm; her throat closes up and the fear takes her-
  * “They’ll be all right!” her guard hastens to say. “Your brother was only a little hurt! But he wanted to keep his promise, and sent me to get you. Now quietly, like I said; and if we hurry we won’t need a light.”
  * “There are no stars,” Elór objects. “And the moon is new.”
  * “And we know our way around the keep, don’t we? Come, Princess.”
  * The guard opens the door for her, carefully, so it makes no noise, and waits for her to leave
  * Elór steps through and senses movement behind her, and it is only her guard coming a little too close behind, the door also has to be closed; but a strip of cloth comes _down_ and _back_ and she doesn’t have a chance to even think about yelling-




End file.
